


all I never knew (I needed)

by toastweasel



Series: Superhero AU (Ghostbusters 2016) [2]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Smut, this is literally 65 percent smut, witness my shame ya'll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastweasel/pseuds/toastweasel
Summary: Connie Williams, butch motorcyclist, was just passing through. But then she met Dr. Rebecca Gorin in a bar in the middle of nowhere and everything changed.Extremely smutty, gay spinoff of my fic "borrow mine til yours can open, too." Can be read alone.  Set in the 1980s. Queer history and culture abound. Extremely NSFW.#GloriousDesertLesbians





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer time: This isn’t my usual. If you’ve come for intricate plot, you might be disappointed, and this is probably 65% smut. If you’ve come for a canon relationship, I can’t help you, as Connie is an OC (that I love dearly and hope you do, too). If you’ve come for slow burn, this also is not for you.
> 
> HOWEVER, if you have come for queer history, queer culture, sass, a twist on the usual butch/femme dichotomy, the 1980s, a spinoff of “borrow mine so yours can open, too,” an unapologetic love of motorcycles, and/or realistic and consensual lesbian smut…well. This just might be the fic for you.
> 
> I would like to thank my enabler, @holtzbabe, because without her unconditional enthusiasm for this project it probably would not have gotten past twenty pages.
> 
> I regret nothing. Enjoy! XO

[1986]

There’s a small bar that she stops by on her way home from Sanctuary. One of those stereotypical ones, like in the movies. Saloon style, at the intersection where two roads cross for the first time in fifty miles and, because of that, a town springs up. It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, but so is Sanctuary—she drives an hour out into the desert every morning and then drives an hour back. The saloon is a little bit less than thirty minutes from her house in Indian Springs, so every once in a while, when the experiments under her care have been uppity, or her fellow (male) colleagues have her really irritated, she stops by for a drink. Miss Kathy only accepts cash, which is good, because that’s all Dr. Rebecca Gorin pays with.

There’s a large collection of motorcycles parked out front when she pulls her nondescript silver sedan into the parking lot—that is routine. Lots of biker groups stop by Miss Kathy’s for a bite to eat and to stretch their legs on long, cross-country tours. She steps inside and is immediately assaulted by the loud joviality that comes with it being a bar on a Friday night. This, for her, is as close to _home_ as she ever might have out here in the desert.

 Miss Kathy sees her come in and by the time the scientist has bellied up to the bar the red head has made her a perfect gin martini, stirred, with extra olives. Her usual.

“Put your order of fries in when I saw you pull up,” the proprietress shouts over the hub bub of the bikers. “Should be out soon.”

Rebecca salutes her with her martini glass, then takes a sip. The perfect gin martini is, as always, perfect. She reaches up to undo the top button on her shirt collar and exhales loudly. It has been a long and trying day full of idiot men who constantly question her authority. Not that this is new, but today was more difficult than most.

One of the bikers slides up to the bar and orders another beer, Rebecca stiffens, expecting a come on, but then realizes the biker is female. She looks around and realizes most of the bikers in the bar are female, although many of them look like men. Including the one standing next to her, waiting for Miss Kathy to pass her another round. Her heart flutters. The woman notices her looking and gives her a little jerk of the head in acknowledgement; Rebecca nods back but otherwise says nothing.

The woman leaves. Her fries come. She dips them in catsup, eats them slowly. Savors them.

“You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

She glances to her side. Another biker woman has materialized at the bar with an empty beer glass. She has short brown hair, a round face, and a Boston accent. Rebecca is instantly reminded of home and feels the briefest pang of homesickness; she hasn’t seen Boston in nigh on a decade.

“You could say that.”

“No offense, but you don’t look like the desert type.”

Rebecca almost hides a smile. No, with her pantsuit and popped collar she supposes she doesn’t. Although she had originally hoped the bolo tie would make her fit in with the locals, it never stood a snowballs chance in hell. Now, though, she wears them because she has grown fond of them. She likes to think they give her a little power—even if they are a strangulation hazard.

Despite her exhaustion, Rebecca finds it within her, somehow, to make small talk with this woman. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

“You don’t look like Air Force type, either.”

She supposes the woman is referencing Creech, the Air Force Base in Indian Springs, where she lives. And no, she supposes she does not look anything like the women who serve at the Air Force base. She states as much.

The woman frowns. “So where you from, then? You passin’ through, too?”

“I’m sorry, my Boston accent has been trained out of me through years of working with scientists.”

The woman lights up. “No shit! A fellow Bostonian all the way out here in bumfuck, Nevada? What are the odds?”

Rebecca laughs; as a scientist, she knows the odds. They are slim; this woman is the first Bostonian she has seen in a long, long time.  

“So you just, travelin’? Seeing the south west?”

“Is that what you’re doing?” the scientist asks, masterfully steering the conversation away from her and her background.

“The girls are between jobs so me’n some them thought we’d go on a little tour of the States.” She jabs her thumb back towards the corner, where a few other butch bikers are watching their exchange with interest. “And that’s how we got here. I—shit. I never got your name. Connie.” She sticks her hand out, like a man.

The scientist takes it. It’s been a long time since a woman has offered her her hand. She shakes; Connie has a firm grip. Her hands are callused, although from work or riding is anyone’s guess.

“Rebecca.”

Miss Kathy finally comes back with Connie’s new beer. She takes it, mumbles out a nice to meet you, and heads back to her table of female bikers. Rebecca sits at the bar and nurses her martini and fries. She feels the eyes of Connie and her biker friends drilling into her; she decides it is time to go. Anybody who pays her that much attention out here is bound to be trouble. She tells Kathy she wants to close out her tab; she pays her for the food and the drink, then heads out to her car.

The drive back to her house in Indian Springs is silent. She does not turn on the radio and listen to NPR, as is her custom. Instead she wonders about Boston, and how much it’s probably changed.

-/-

Rebecca forgets Connie until she stops by Miss Kathy’s two weeks later and she’s there again. This time she’s alone at the bar, large hands wrapped around a cold one. The scientist notices her biker vest for the first time—a large grey circle with a cog inlayed in a triangle dominates most of her back. ‘DYKES ON BIKES’ is embroidered in the cog.

Rebecca’s heart skips a beat. She tries to put her car keys in her purse and misses the first time; they drop to the floor with a clatter. It’s a Wednesday night, so the bar is relatively quiet. Everyone notices the clatter. Connie swivels on her barstool, sees her, and is half up off the stool to help by the time Rebecca swoops down and collects her keys.

She straightens her back, sniffs haughtily, and takes a seat two over from Connie at the bar.

“You’re a regular here?” Connie asks, after Miss Kathy passes her over a perfect stirred gin martini without being asked. “I thought you was passin’ through!”

“You thought wrong.” She takes a sip of her drink, willing the alcohol to give her the courage to deal with this big butch dyke. She does not know how she did not notice before the absolute litany of gay and lesbian related buttons and pins and patches that decorate the front of this woman’s riding vest like a quilt—but there they are. Taunting Rebecca. Reminding her of a past she left behind in Boston.

“So you live here?”

“In Pahrump?” Rebecca lets out a laugh. “God no.”

“Then where you from?”

Rebecca gestures with her martini in a vaguely eastward direction. “Over the mountains.”

“Indian Springs!” calls Miss Kathy from down the bar where she’s polishing glasses.  

Rebecca glares at her and mumbles something under her breath.

Connie looks interested. “I thought you weren’t an Air Force girl.”

“I’m not,” Rebecca says, in a tone that should set off warning bells in most people’s heads. It’s a tone that says ‘Enough. Stop prodding. Back off.’ But the biker keeps going.

“Then where do you work?”

“Classified,” the scientist grits out. Miss Kathy mocks her from behind the bar. Connie holds up her hands in mock surrender. To take the heat off her Rebecca asks, “Where are your friends?”

“They went ahead to Vegas. I’m meeting up with them tonight.”

“But you detoured this way?”

Connie shrugs, sip her beer, does not meet her eye.

Rebecca takes the stupid plastic sword from her drink and pops an olive in her mouth. She watches Connie pretend to not watch her chew, swallow, and take a sip of her martini to chase the olive down. And then she understands _exactly_ what this is about.

It’s thrilling to know that she is still considered attractive and desirable, especially now that she’s in her mid-thirties. However, she wonders how much of this thrill is a side effect of being the only gay woman between Gold Center and Las Vegas. Possibly between Carson City and Las Vegas. She wonders how much of it is the fact that Connie is from Boston, like her. And she wonders how much of it is the fact that Connie is looking at her like she could hang the stars in the sky and they have not even really got to talking yet.

So she plays it coy, because if this big butch dyke detoured all the way to Pahrump on the off chance she was going to see her again, she is going to make her _work for it_. “So where are you coming back from? I’m assuming since you’re back here you stopped and turned around at some point.”

Connie has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “Yeah. We went up to San Francisco, did some sightseeing.”

Gorin waits for her to sip her beer before asking, “In the Castro?”

Connie inhales sharply and instantly chokes on beer foam. Rebecca hides her own smile into her martini as Connie thumps herself on the chest and coughs. The butch biker looks at her, trying to tell what her angle is.

Rebecca betrays nothing, only sipping her martini. When she finally sets it down she asks, “Well? Did you sightsee in the Castro?”

Connie’s face turned a bit hard. She looks, suddenly, like she is chiseled from straight rock. Rebecca understands in that moment why some of the girls used to call some of the butches _stone_. “We came out for a funeral so, yeah. We stopped at the Castro.”

The scientist swallows. Despite living and working in the middle of nowhere on top secret stuff, even she is not isolated enough to not know about the disease sweeping the men of the community. The disease being called gay cancer. The one the doctors are powerless to stop. AIDs.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmurs, and she means it. If she had not taken the job with the six figure paycheck bioengineering super soldiers in the middle of the desert, perhaps she would be home in Boston, or out in San Francisco, using her expertise to find some means of a cure…or, at least, some way to halt the disease’s destructive progress through the gay community. 

Connie shrugs and drinks her beer. They lapse into silence. Gorin, uncharacteristically, fiddles with the stem of her martini; she twirls the glass around and around and around between her fingers.

“When did Boston get its own chapter of Dykes on Bikes?” Rebecca asks, finally, when Connie does not say anything.

“Two years ago.”

“Hmm.”

Connie looks at her. “What’s your deal? Knowing shit about dykes out here in the middle of nowhere. What are you, a cop?”

The scientist’s reaction is instantaneous. She stands, downs the rest of her martini, and throws a couple of bills from her purse down on the bar. If it’s not exact change, she expects Kathy will credit her for it next time she’s back here; that’s the kind of person she is and that’s the kind of business she runs. Rebecca steps down from the bar and immediately wobbles—she curses internally. Her lunch had not been large, and it had been early. She had worked late and had only planned to stop in for a quick drink to cool her frayed temper before heading home to dinner alone. She had not ordered fries. The martini had gone straight to her head.

So much for her exit with a flourish.

Connie, despite her accusation (or perhaps because of it), follows her out of the bar. Her bike is the only one in sight—a big ‘82 Harley, shiny, well taken care of. Rebecca unknowingly parked right next to it when she had pulled in earlier. She fumbles for her keys and, butter fingered from the alcohol, drops them in the dust of the gravel parking lot.

“You’ve been droppin’ these a lot. Maybe you shouldn’t be drivin’,” Connie suggests, fetching her keys for her when Gorin stoops to pick them up, wobbles dangerously, and misses.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I only had one drink.”

“Haven’t you seen those MADD commercials on the TV?” Connie asks. “Not to mention you’re a rail. When did you last eat?”

The scientist crosses her arms over her chest and does not answer.

The butch biker sighs. “Fine. You come back in there with me and eat and sober up, and I’ll give you your keys, or you don’t eat and I’ll take you home on my bike.”

Rebecca sputters. “I live thirty five miles away!”

“Then I’ll drive you back tomorrow to get your car before gettin’ on the road.”

“I thought you were meeting friends in Vegas.”

“I am, but they can gamble without me. I’m not a betting girl.” Connie shakes her keys at her tauntingly. “So what’ll it be?”

Rebecca’s arms tighten over her chest. “I’m not hungry.”

“Home it is, then.” Connie puts the scientist’s car keys in her pocket. “I’m going to settle out my tab, I’ll be right back.”

Rebecca watches, dumfounded, as Connie walks away with her keys. Less than five minutes later she is back; Rebecca is leaning against the hood of her 1976 Honda Civic, rubbing a migraine in her temple. Connie hands her a few bills.

“Kathy says it’s fine to leave your car here overnight. Here’s your change.”

Gorin takes it and stuffs it in her purse. Connie pulls on a black bucket helmet and kicks her Harley to life. “C’mon, get on.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not one of your meek little femmes to boss around!” Rebecca snaps. “Give me back my keys or I’ll go back in and call the police!”

The word ‘police’ causes Connie to kill the engine. Uncomfortable silence spreads between them. Both of them know that if Rebecca calls the cops, it will most likely end badly for Connie. Neither of them want that, especially not Rebecca. She just wants this butch to stop treating her like a child and to give her back her goddamn keys.

Connie, however, does not know that. There’s wariness in her eyes that Rebecca recognizes from the butches back home. The ones who have brawled with the Boston cops in bar raids and came out worse for wear.

“If I give you your keys,” the butch says slowly, “will you promise not to drive until you’re sober?”

Rebecca nods.

Connie reaches into her pocket and pulls out her keys. She tosses them to her; Gorin misses. As the scientist scrambles for them in the ground for what seems like the ten millionth time that night (it’s really only the third), Connie swings off her bike and takes off her helmet. She plops her large frame down on one of the weathered railroad ties that serve as parking space markers outside of Miss Kathy’s Short Branch Saloon.

“What are you doing?” Rebecca snaps, pride already wounded and not in the mood for any more stings.

“Keeping you company while you sober up.”

“My leather clad guardian angel,” she drawls, her Boston accent coming out in every sarcasm-dripped vowel. Connie notices and smiles. Rebecca scowls, but sits.

Silence reigns between them. They watch the rest of the patrons of the bar leave. The desert is so quiet around they can hear the dishes clanking and radio playing from inside the saloon as Miss Kathy starts to clean up for the night.

“So how’d a Boston girl like you end up movin’ out to a place like this?” Connie asks, finally, gesturing out at the scrubland on the other side of the road.

“Same as any Boston man. I took a well paying job.”

Connie snorts. “A fancy one, too, if you wear that zoot suit to work every day.”

Rebecca shrugs, indifferent. She is not going to give Connie any other ideas as to where she might work.

They are quiet again. Then Connie says, “Not all butches push around their femmes, you know.”

“I know,” Rebecca admits. She has experience, after all. Her voice is quiet and soft. Then it firms up. “I’m just tired of being pushed around.”

“By butches?” Connie asks, almost hopeful.

“By everyone.”

Connie notices the bitter tone in her voice. “Hmm. Guess I maybe pushed a bit too hard, too. I’m used to people following my orders when I give them.” Rebecca looks at her sideways. “I’m a correctional officer.”

Rebecca starts to laugh. She can’t help it—the first lesbian to ride through here in forever, the first one who takes an interest in her, and she’s a fucking correctional officer. She wonders if the Universe is trying to make a satire out of her life.

Connie does not get why it is funny. She voices this. Rebecca waves her concern off.

 “Our work is very similar. That’s all.”

“Want to clarify on that statement?”

“No.”

Connie sighs. “Just so I’m not getting all this twisted, you are gay, right? I’m assuming this is flirting. Or are you just this difficult with everyone?”

“Only butch dykes,” Gorin says. Connie looks at her sideways; their eyes connect and Rebecca actually smiles at her. “You aren’t wrong.”

The biker sags visibly in relief. “Thank God. I thought for a while you might actually just be a straight woman.”

“Would it matter if I was?”

“Well I might be less inclined to be sittin’ here, talkin’ to you.”

Rebecca scoffs. “Are you saying you wouldn’t sit on a railroad tie in the middle of the desert with a buzzed girl simply because she’s straight?”

“Not if she wasn’t as gorgeous as you.”

The scientist is glad it is dark, because she’s certain her pale skin has flushed bright red. She ducks her head and stares at the dimly lit gravel between her feet. She’s not sure what has gotten her so flustered—the fact that Connie called her gorgeous, or the way her Boston accent tugged on the vowels of that word.

Just then the lights behind them shut off, and Miss Kathy comes out to lock up the front of the bar. She looks at them, sitting next to Connie’s bike, and sniffs a bit. Her keys jangle as she locks one padlock, then another, and then she as she finds the key to her truck.

“Take care, now, Rebecca,” she says stiffly, and Rebecca is not sure if her words are a warning or some well-meant advice.

Miss Kathy’s feet crunch across the gravel. She gets in her truck, slams the old creaky door closed, and after a minute the truck roars to life. Both Connie and Rebecca wince at the sudden noise in the otherwise peaceful desert. Miss Kathy pulls out and heads home, leaving them alone in a very dark gravel parking lot with only the stars for company.

“They homophobes out here?” Connie asks quietly.

“Some,” the scientist allows. “Most others mind their business.”

“Hmm.”

Rebecca looks up at the sky; Connie does, too. The Milky Way stretches out above them in all of its majestic glory.

“Don’t see that every day,” Connie breathes.

“I see her every night. Only consolation in moving to this goddamn place.”

“Can’t you leave?” Connie asks, although it sounds like she already knows the answer.

“No,” she says softly, almost like she’s sad. Then, a bit harder, mostly to herself, “I know too much.”

Connie is quiet. Then she moves a bit closer, into her personal space, and wraps an arm around her without looking away from the heavens. Rebecca is not a very physical person. She stiffens up at the contact; Connie notices and slides the arm down, bracing on the railroad tie behind her instead. She’s still close to her; their legs are mere millimeters from touching and Rebecca can feeling the warm of her arm pressing against her back, but she can deal with that. The scientist relaxes.

“This is not how I thought this ride was going to go,” the biker says finally. “Thought I was just gonna get to San Fran, pay my respects, and come back. See a bit of the country. Relax from work. And somehow…”

She trails off. They both understand. Rebecca’s hand settles on Connie’s knee, pats there softly. “You’re a good butch.”

“I try.”

“I’m not kissing you until this buzz is over,” the scientist warns her in a wry voice, glancing over at her.

Connie finally tears her gaze away from the stars, looks at her dead in the eye. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A half smile stretches on Rebecca’s lips, then she tilts her head back up. She has plenty of opportunities to look at the stars out here, but very few to actually look at them _with_ someone. Connie tilts her head up, too, and is quiet for a while.

Then, “So what _can_ you tell me about yourself?”

Rebecca scoffs. “You talk a lot, but it’s always to ask me questions. That’s new.”

“What can I say? You’re an interestin’ gal.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the femmes.”

“I’m not sure you’re like any femme I’ve ever chatted with.”

“And I’m not sure you’re quite like any butch I’ve had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of.”

Connie laughs. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I’m like most Boston bulldaggers.”

Rebecca ‘hrm’s and leans forward; she picks up a piece of gravel to fiddle with.

Connie watches her as she turns the lump of stone over and over in her hands. “You sound pretty smart. You go to college?”

“Boston University for undergrad, then MIT for Masters and Doctorate.”

“You have a doctorate?” Gorin nods. “In what?”

“Bioengineering.”

“Did you have a focus?”

“Classified.”

Connie sighs. “Of course it is.”

“Sorry,” Gorin replies, not sounding sorry at all. “And yourself? Did you go to college?”

“For a few semesters, but I dropped out.” Connie shrugs. “Wasn’t for me. Don’t need a degree to work as a prison guard. Fifteen years later, here I am.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty five.”

“Thirty seven.”

Connie did some quick math. “How long you said you lived here again?”

“Ten years.” To belay any confusion Rebecca adds quickly, “I attended college early.”

The biker whistles. “Real early. You’re one smart cookie.”

The scientist shrugs and looks out into the distance, where mountains loomed as dark smudges on the horizon. Connie’s hand, from its prime location, starts to rub her side gently.  Rebecca does not hate it; the desert night is starting to get chilly.

“Who decides if I’m not buzzed anymore?” Gorin asks after a bit.

“Me,” Connie says firmly.

“And what are our criteria?”

“To start? Can you stand and walk without wobbling or falling.”

“And then?”

“We’ll test your hand eye coordination.”

Rebecca snorts. She pulls away from Connie and stands up without much trouble, then makes her way to another railroad tie. She steps onto it; Connie watches as she carefully makes her way across it as if it were a balance beam. At the end, she hops down and turns to face her.

“Satisfied?”

Connie stands herself and walks over to where Rebecca was standing. “That’s a good start.”

“I think it’s good enough,” the scientist says smartly. She steps in close, wrapping a hand in Connie’s plaid button up. “Stop stalling.”

The biker smiles and wraps her arm around her, pulling her into her before leaning in and kissing her. Rebecca exhales softly into the kiss; it’s been ten years since she’s kissed anyone, and Connie is a good break to that fast. Her lips are chapped and taste like the bitters in her beer. She smells like exhaust and men’s deodorant. Her hands are large and firm on her hips; as their kiss keeps going, one of those hands ends up slipping down to her ass.

Rebecca whimpers softly and Connie regains her senses, breaks the kiss, starts to pulls away.

“No, don’t,” the scientist rasps, tugging the front of her shirt to keep her close.

Connie looks surprised. “Are you sure?”

“If I’m going to have a fling, I might as well do it properly,” Rebecca replies, before leaning in and kissing Connie again. Connie must concur, because soon after she has her pressed up against the railing of the saloon’s outdoor porch, face buried into the high collar of her shirt, pressing long, slow kisses to her neck. The kisses make Rebecca moan in such a way that it takes all of Connie’s self-control not to start in on unbuckling her pants and take her right there.

But she doesn’t, because she knows better. Instead she tests with her body weight, presses herself against the length of the other woman’s body; Rebecca arches to her almost immediately. After more neck kisses, more making out, she shifts herself, moves her leg between Rebecca’s own and presses up. The shuddering gasp she is rewarded with is much worth the wait.

Rebecca does not know that Connie dreamed of this moment two nights after they met, when she and her friends were staying in San Francisco. She does not know that Connie woke up, hot and bothered, from taking Rebecca in a dream in a situation very similar to this one. Rebecca does not know, but Connie does.

Despite her eagerness, her desire to strip this beautifully smart, witty, sassy woman to nakedness and make her whimper and cry and come crying to the stars, Connie checks in first.

“Are you okay?” she murmurs, pulling away from her neck, making sure she has left no permanent marks on her skin. She has not.

“I’m fine,” Rebecca manages, panting heavily and definitely disheveled. It looks so odd on a woman of her stature and nature.

“Are you?”

Rebecca nods. “My only problem is now I’m much too worked up to get home.”

Connie grins a bit lopsidedly at the news. She might get her wish after all. “You want me to take you _here_ , in this parking lot?” The scientist nods again. “You barely know me.”

“And yet here we are,” Rebecca says wryly. Not knowing each other had not stopped them from flirting madly and then making out. She reaches down and unbuckles her belt, making her desires clear. “You said you’re a good butch. Show me how good.”

Said butch in question snorts. She reaches down, going for Rebecca’s pants, but then the sound on an approaching car causes her to pull away. They two women stand, stock still, for several minutes until the car goes by. It does not even slow down, much to their mutual relief.

As the car’s red taillights begin to glow in the distance, Rebecca tugs her close. “Don’t wimp out on me.”

Connie wraps both arms around her, pulls her close, squeezes her ass. “I won’t.”

At some point, with more kissing and massaging and loosening of clothing, they move and find their way onto the hood of Rebecca’s car. Her pants and underwear find themselves around her ankles. When Connie’s finger first teases the scientist’s entrance, she practically growls and reaches down to grab her hand. Connie starts to pull back, thinking something is wrong, but Rebecca just grabs Connie’s wrist and presses her finger deep inside her.

“You’re not going to break me,” she tells her, which Connie thinks is mildly hysterical considering she is knuckle-deep in a woman who put her there herself. She starts moving her finger, pumping, massaging, exploring. She loses herself in Rebecca’s moans.

Two cars go by while Connie is finger fucking her, but they are shielded by the darkness and their position on the hood. Each time they go by Connie feels Rebecca tighten a bit; she’s obviously a bit of an exhibitionist, or at least gets a mild thrill about the prospect of getting caught. Despite this, and her evident state of arousal, it takes Connie almost fifteen minutes to get her to the edge.

When she peaks, it’s magnificent. Her back arches and her fist slams into the hood of her car as she moans, low and guttural. She is so, so wet and so, so tight. She comes down panting heavily and closes her eyes, drapes her arm over them. She is still half clothed, the pale skin of her lower half glowing in the starlight.

“You should know, I don’t normally do this,” Rebecca murmurs from beneath her after several long moments of recovery.

“What?” Connie asks, obviously amused. “Have sex with virtual strangers, or have sex with strangers on the hood of your car?”

“Both,” the scientist admits. “But, mmm…that was very good.”

“You should see me with a strap on.”

Rebecca’s inner muscles clench just at the thought. Connie’s finger is still inside her; she feels it and she knows exactly how she reacts. The butch grins, then slowly pulls her finger out. Rebecca mourns the loss.

“My house is thirty minutes away,” she says as Connie steps back to wipe her hand on her jeans. Her wetness becomes a dark stain on the denim. “Twenty if we speed.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m implying that I would be very much in favor of a round two….unless you have to be leaving to get to Vegas.”

“Vegas can wait.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still hella raunchy, still very nsfw.

The ride back to Rebecca’s is torture. She might have gotten off, but Connie had not. Her motorcycle hums underneath her, keeping her stimulated the entire drive. It’s all she can do to maintain a safe following distance behind Rebecca’s Honda Civic.

Rebecca lives in a small subdivision off Route 95, right across from the Air Base. Connie feels bad coming thundering in on her noisy Harley late on a weeknight; her watch says it is almost eleven thirty. She is almost definitely going to be the cause of a disturbed sleep somewhere in this neighborhood.

The scientist’s house is a small, one story adobe-esque 1950s bungalow with an attached garage. The front is xeriscaped in deference to the oppressive summer heat and undoubtable water restrictions that come with it. Rebecca pulls into the driveway, gets out to open the garage door, then pulls her car in. Connie pulls her bike in beside her. Gorin is still collecting her things as Connie swings off her bike, so the butch solicitously goes to lower and lock the garage door, then follows her into the house.

She’s curious; she thought the house might be pin neat, but that is not so. There are papers _everywhere._ In stacks, mind you, but there is at least one stack on every flat surface in the house. The kitchen table, especially, is covered in those stacks. Connie tries not to snoop, but most of them look like complex chemistry equations, typewritten reports covered in red pencil annotations, and sketches of anatomy.

At the table, there is a space cleared to eat for one, and only one. Rebecca obviously does not have many visitors.

“Shoes off, please.”

Connie immediately leans against the wall and takes off her biker boots before she tracks anything from the linoleum of the kitchen onto the carpet in the living room. She leaves her boots in the mudroom. Rebecca waits for her in the fairly barren sitting room until she reappears, then heads off into what Connie assumes is the back bedroom, carrying her shoes.

She follows after her, still looking around. The bedroom has fewer papers, but more bookshelves pressed against the walls. A neatly made queen sized bed dominates the middle of the room.

“Just you?”

“Just me,” Rebecca confirms from the closet, where she is putting away her shoes.

“Not even a cat or two?”

“My last cat died two years ago.”

Connie makes a sympathetic noise. The scientist leaves the room and Connie inspects the contents of bookshelves. She should have predicted Rebecca was a reader. Two of the bookshelves hold fiction; ten years’ worth of novels, some of them more worn with use than others. A lot of it is historical fiction, but several of the more well-read ones are fantasy. That _is_ a surprise. Connie would never have pegged her for the type. The third and fourth bookshelves holds nonfiction, and has everything from biographies to historical accounts to chronicles and encyclopedias. Titles about the Crusades mix with books about the Holocaust and Queer Identities. Rebecca is very well read, indeed.

Connie walks out of the bedroom to comment on this and finds her in the bathroom, taking down her hair. She had clearly just washed her face; it is shiny and a bit red, free of makeup. Her glasses are off.  Connie stands in the doorway and watches as she pulls bobby pins from her mass of hair. Her hair had been slightly out of control even before they had fucked the first time, but as Rebecca takes it out one twist at a time, it becomes clear that even down and brushed out her hair is a riotous, curly mess.

Rebecca catches Connie’s reflection in the mirror; they make eye contact for a moment before Rebecca continues on with her nightly toilette. She looks younger with her hair down, less severe, Connie thinks. More like the femmes she is used to back in Boston. However, Connie already prefers this woman with her hair up; it compliments her personality better than anything else.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Rebecca says from where she is brushing and braiding her hair, catching Connie’s attention. “If you want to jumpstart this, you can take off your chaps and socks.”

The biker could not help but smile; Rebecca is definitely not like any femme she’s ever been with. This tall, assertive, efficient woman is already becoming quite enmeshed in her heart.

Connie’s hands slip down to the main buckle on her riding chaps; she leans on the doorframe, undoes it. She can tell Rebecca is watching the action in the mirror, and that she likes it. She loosens the other buckles and then steps out of the chaps, folding them carefully over her arm. Then she takes off her belt; Rebecca is no longer looking, she’s doing something in the sink, but Connie knows she can hear the clink of the belt buckle and the gentle shhh noise of the belt leather against denim as she pulls it off.

Connie moves back into the bedroom so she can take off her socks as well. Rebecca comes in a few moments after Connie finishes folding her socks and putting them, her chaps, and her belt in a neat pile by the closet. The scientist’s hair is back up, braided and knotted in a thick bun at the back of her head. Connie is disappointed; she had so hoped to run her hands through that wild brown hair.

“So how are we going about this?” Rebecca asks, arms crossed under her breasts.

“You mean you didn’t think about it on the way over?” Connie had. In explicit detail.

Rebecca shrugs. “I thought about it…in many different ways. But I am uncertain of exactly what kind of lover you are.” She uncrosses and comes to stand before her. “For instance: Do you want reciprocation, or do you exist just to give?”

“I am by no means a stone butch,” Connie replied, reaching over and stroking up Rebecca’s back. The shiver and her brief lack of composure is a beautiful thing. “If you wish you may reciprocate. I will not object in the slightest.”

Rebecca takes a moment to ground herself. “But I am right in thinking you are more of a giver?”

Connie inclines her head in acknowledgement. She moves back to sit on the bed; Gorin stands for a second by herself, then comes over. The butch pulls her in and strokes the back of her legs. Rebecca’s eyes drift closed for a moment and she takes a shuddering breath.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she says after a moment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve brought someone home.”

“How long?”

“…Since I left Boston.”

Connie makes a soft noise of disbelief. Ten years! “You’ve never gone up to Reno or Vegas and found the gay bars there?”

Rebecca looks pained for a second. “Not exactly something I can do.”

“Why not?” Connie asks, then remembers that this woman’s entire life in Nevada is full of secrets. She shakes her head. “Nevermind.”

Rebecca sighs, as if she dearly wants to tell Connie something, but she ends up shaking her head, as if she is saying no to herself. It is in this moment that Connie realizes that Rebecca needs this just as much as Connie needs her. She’s not sure if it’s the sex she needs or simply the contact, but either way Connie is happy to provide. Even as much as she wants this amazing woman to lead this little romp, she understands that Dr. Rebecca Gorin is probably feeling a little bit lost as to how to proceed. A feeling, if Connie had to guess, she is not used to.

She pulls Rebecca closer, having her straddle one leg. The scientist braces herself lightly with her hands on Connie’s shoulders. The biker’s big hands slide up her legs again, across her ass. She dips them into her waist, squeezes firmly, and then slides them back the way they came.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

“You’ve already done that once tonight,” Rebecca replies, pressing to her touch as Connie slides her hands up her front. She had taken off her vest, jacket, and bolo tie in the bathroom, but left her shirt on. Connie is a little disappointed that she does not get to unwrap Rebecca layer by layer, but that is how it goes sometimes. She does the next best thing; she palms her breasts through her bra and shirt.

Rebecca’s breath hitches. Connie squeezes and she whimpers.

“Is this okay?” Nodding. “You’ll have to tell me what you like.”

“This is _more than_ fine,” the smaller woman manages, her voice a bit strangled. Connie massages and squeezes a bit more, than reaches up and starts to undo her shirt. With every inch of pale skin that is revealed, she takes a moment to rub her thumb across it. Rebecca seems to enjoy being worshiped; by the time Connie has unbuttoned her shirt all the way down, the scientist’s skin is goosefleshed in anticipation.

Connie takes a moment to run her hands across her body, taking in her surprisingly curvy body. Connie had thought she would be stick thin but is presently surprised. She palms her breasts again, then pulls away.

“I’m not going to even try with your bra. Could you..?”

Rebecca smiles a bit. She shrugs off her shirt and then reaches back to undo her bra. Connie pulled the straps down and the cups off her breasts, then moved in before she could even think to be self-conscious. She presses a kiss between her full breasts, then one to each side; Rebecca shivers.

“You can touch me, you know,” Connie says against her skin.

“Where?”

“Wherever you want.” Rebecca pauses, then hesitantly threaded her fingers through Connie’s short hair. Connie makes a soft noise of contentment. “If you have nails, I wouldn’t mind a scratch.”

Rebecca does so, scratching her nails into the sides of her head. Connie hums in happiness and starts back in. This time, she takes a nipple into her mouth and sucks. The older woman groans, her nails pressing into Connie’s skin.

So she likes pressure on her nipples. Connie moves her free hand up to Rebecca’s other breast, rolling the nipple between her fingers. Unpredictably, the scientist barely responds. Connie frowns, but knows there is more than one way to play with a breast. She tugs and twists, mimicking what she had done with her mouth. Rebecca gasps and arches against her. Connie lets go and instead grabs her behind, then lifts her fully onto her lap.

“Fuck,” Rebecca whimpers.

Connie’s hand comes up to stabilize her. She nips gently at Rebecca’s nipple. “I like it when you swear.”

“Well I like it when you talk.”

Connie pulls back, smiling. “Is it the accent?” she asks as she unbuttons Rebecca’s pants and slides her hand between her legs to massage her thighs.

The scientist trembles at the touch; her hands tighten on Connie’s shoulders. “That’s…”

“Classified?”

“Shut up.”

Connie drags a finger across the crotch of her pants, causing her legs to almost buckle. “I thought you wanted me to talk.”

Rebecca swears softly. Connie’s hand massages her; she can feel that Rebecca is already soaked and eager to go. The scientist moans.

“Is riding a comfortable position for you?”

Rebecca frowns for a moment, contemplative, then nods. Connie reaches back up and unzips her pants; Rebecca scoots back and Connie pulls them down with her underwear as far as she can. They fall the rest of the way and she steps out of them.

The butch can’t help it; she looks her up and down and barely restrains a whistle. This woman is everything. She gestures for her to come back. Rebecca frowns.

“I don’t see why I’m the only one naked in this room.”

Connie immediately reaches for the buttons of her plaid; Rebecca tisks and steps forward, brushing her hands away.

“Only fair,” she says as she begins to undo the buttons.

Connie’s hands quickly resettle on her hips. “Only fair,” she agrees.

Rebecca makes quick work of the buttons, exposing Connie’s bra. She tries to reach down and undo the button on her jeans, but the angle makes it hard. Connie assists her, then pulls down the zipper. “Want them off?”

Rebecca gestures that yes, she does indeed want them off. Connie obliges; she had to stand to remove them. The older woman watches with her arms crossed over her chest, eyes dark. Connie kicks her jeans away, and Rebecca takes in her boxers with ill-disguised hunger.

Connie suddenly remembers their encounter in the bathroom. She reaches up and slowly pulls off her shirt, exposing her large shoulders and torso. Connie knew she was a fairly fine specimen of butch; she had always been larger, so she carries her muscle and weight like it is nothing. She could tell that Rebecca likes that aspect of her, and it makes her feel strong. She tosses the shirt towards the closet.

“Is this undressed enough for you?”

The scientist shrugs, looking coy. “For now.”

She walks forward and Connie immediately wraps her arms around her. It is a startlingly intimate embrace for two virtual strangers, but neither seem to mind. Rebecca leans in and kisses her, something that Connie readily reciprocates. It’s one of those long, deep kisses that are just barely restrained. Connie loves that Rebecca can kiss her like that.

“You still want to ride?” the butch asks when they finally break apart. Rebecca nods affirmative, so Connie backs them up onto the bed and lifts her up into her lap. She is immediately straddled, and Connie can actually _smell_ Rebecca’s arousal. She reaches down to stroke her fingers across her cunt.

“Is your clit..?”

“I’ll do it,” Rebecca says shortly. It comes out a bit harsher than necessary, but she knows that there is no way Connie will be able to rub her off in the way that makes her crazy given their short acquaintance.

Connie does not seem to mind. She simply nods and moves her fingers down, pressing them into her folds. She strokes gently through her wetness, finding the sensitive spots she did not have the time or position to find before on the car hood. Rebecca gasps as she strokes the base to her swollen labia, and actually keens when Connie explores the rim of her entrance. The butch strokes there and Rebecca braces her forearm heavily on Connie’s shoulder, hand fisting one of the straps on her bra, legs quivering.

“If you haven’t had sex in ten years, surely you’ve amused yourself some other way.” It’s not much of an opening, but Connie knows now that Rebecca likes to hear her accent. So she talks.

Rebecca seems to be having trouble finding words as Connie teases her entrance. “There’s…Las Vegas has several…fantastic sex shops.”

Connie chuckles. “Are they any substitute for the real thing?”

Rebecca does not answer. Instead, she presses herself more insistently against Connie’s fingers. Connie obliges and slides one in. Rebecca groans and sinks down on the digit until Connie is once again knuckle deep inside her. Her butch lover starts to move her finger, but quickly discovers Rebecca’s arousal is so great that any friction is minimal.

“How do you feel about more than one?” Connie murmurs as she gently presses against Rebecca’s walls. She’s small, but not that small; she can definitely take another finger. Rebecca thinks so, too; she nods. Connie pulls the first one out. Before the scientist can protest too much about its absence, she presses the tip of two fingers into her entrance.

The older woman swears, but in happiness, not in pain. She momentarily clenches in anticipation of this increased girth, so much so that Connie cannot get her fingers any further. The biker works her open again with feather light strokes and dips, eventually easing them into her when she is no longer clenched like a vice.

Rebecca’s head dips down into her neck as she takes them. She whimpers out a soft “fuck” right in Connie’s ear, and that little noise goes straight to Connie’s core. The scientist straightens up again after a moment of adjustment, breathing a little heavily.

“Okay?” Connie asks.

Rebecca nods. Connie can feel she’s ready now. She curls her fingers and starts to press them into the prominent roughness of Rebecca’s engorged g-spot. The scientist keens, pressing down hard into her fingers. Connie watches her get lost in the sensation of the stretch and the press, over and over again until she’s clenching in time with each thrust of her fingers.

Connie leans in and kisses her pulse point. “God, you’re tight.” She is, and Connie loves it. There is nothing the biker loves more than getting a beautiful woman off, and Dr. Rebecca Gorin is no exception.

The vaginal stimulation, while obviously making Rebecca feel good, is not enough. She reaches down and starts to rub her clit in time with Connie’s thrusts; she gets, if possible, even tighter. This position has warmed her up much faster than when she was spread out on the hood of her car with Connie over her. Perhaps it is the fact she is on top, or the fact that they are in her bedroom, or maybe she’s just one of those women who has a long first round but then rebounds quickly for the second.

Connie is not sure what the case it. All she knows is that Rebecca is on the edge, which is good, because her wrist is starting to cramp. She pushes a bit more, twists her fingers a little bit. The scientist starts gasping. Her hips lose their rhythm. It is obvious she is getting closer and closer and then—she peaks. She peaks hard in a flurry of pressing hips, keening moans, and whimpers, back arching. Her head tucks into Connie’s neck again as she slams back down, her orgasm continuing to roll through her.

Connie hears everything; every breath, every lip smack, every miniscule noise out of her mouth. She moves her hand with her, hoping to extend her orgasm as much as possible, but Rebecca grabs her wrist and shakes her head. Connie stills. As soon as she relaxes enough, the biker withdraws her fingers.

Rebecca slumps against her the moment her hand is out of the way, panting. Connie’s strong, warm torso is a welcome alternative to falling face forward, even if it is into bed. She closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. Connie idly strokes her back and sides, which is how she finds out that stroking the scientist’s sides after an orgasm is the best way to make her completely boneless.

Eventually Rebecca murmurs, “I haven’t come like that in quite a long time.”

Connie laughs. “So your toys aren’t a substitute for the real thing?”

Rebecca makes a displeased face and buries her face back into Connie’s neck. Connie keeps smiling and stroking her side. She does this until finally Rebecca regains enough strength (and the use of her legs) to pull back from her.

If Connie had a dick, she’s absolutely certain that the sight of Rebecca sweaty, flushed, and glowing in pleasure would make made it twitch. She doesn’t have a dick, though, so as it is the sight before her instead just manifests in making the insistent ache between her legs that more apparent. She must be staring, because Rebecca looks a bit embarrassed.

“Sorry, you’re just...stunning.”

“You’ve already gotten into my bed, I don’t think flattery is strictly necessary.”

“I mean it,” Connie replies, and leans in to kiss her neck.

Rebecca lets out a little shuddery breath. She changes topics. “Are you…?”

“Extremely turned on?” Connie asks bluntly. “Yes.”

Rebecca smirks down at her. “I suppose we should do something about that.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I’m not exactly certain,” she admits. “It depends on what you’re comfortable with.”

“No penetration,” Connie says immediately. “Except from behind.” At Rebecca’s extended eyebrow, she clarifies. “Vaginally. I’m not an anal person.”

“I’m glad that’s settled.” Rebecca slides out of her lap and heads for the door. “Give me one moment.”

Connie watches her go. She takes off her bra then resettles into the middle of the bed. She thinks briefly about how strong her feelings for this woman have manifested in such little time. She has little time to get very far in this mindset though because the toilet flushes, the water runs briefly, and then Rebecca is back.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” she says with a wry little smile. Connie shrugs, a bit bashful. Rebecca looks over the large butch with equally large bare breasts in her bed, sizing her up. Then she crawls into bed. She settles, straddled, on Connie’s waist.

“So no penetration,” she continues. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Nothing else of importance,” Connie replies. “You’ll just have to discover the rest.”

Rebecca’s eyes glint at the challenge. She moves up her body and leans down to kiss her. Connie reaches up and pulls her body down into hers, plastering her along the length of her. Rebecca presses her hips down into Connie’s, and the butch moans. Rebecca kisses her again, threading her fingers through Connie’s hair as she rocks her hips against Connie’s.

When the finally break the kiss, panting, Rebecca murmurs, “I don’t know if all this foreplay is strictly necessary.”

“You could probably just rub me off and I’d come almost immediately,” Connie says gruffly, her voice deep with arousal.

“But then I wouldn’t be able to explore,” the scientist half mocks, and leans in to nip her neck. Connie is not as responsive to neck kisses as Rebecca is, so she moves on. Runs her hands, then her mouth, over Connie’s chest and collarbones. Nips at her breasts. Kisses her large areolas, then finds out while her neck is practically a dead zone, her nipples are another story.

They are _very_ sensitive. Rebecca ghosts her fingers over them and Connie moans loud enough that she actually looks up to check in. “Alright?”

Connie nods, so Rebecca goes back to it, smug in her newfound knowledge. She teases her with alternating light and firm touches, the finally pulls one into her mouth. Connie groans, the noise so guttural that it makes Rebecca shiver. The butch’s hands find her hair and twist into it, loosening her bun instantly.

Rebecca is too distracted to care. She sucks on one nipple, then the other, cherishing the noises Connie makes. She can’t believe that she is able to reduce that big strong butch from the saloon to this. It’s extremely gratifying. By the time she is done playing with her nipples, Connie’s chest is heaving.

“Rebecca…please,” she gasps.

The scientist in question scoots back up to kiss her, long and languid, while sliding a leg between Connie’s. She presses up and Connie actually whimpers into her mouth. She can feel Connie’s wetness seeping through her boxers and onto her thigh.

“I should have known you were a little tease,” the butch growls as Rebecca pulls away to put more weight behind the pressing.

“Should you have?” Rebecca asks, hovering over her with a cat-in-the-canary cage sort of expression. She has this big butch dyke _exactly_ where she wants her.

Connie leans up and quickly gets some revenge; she tugs and twists one of Rebecca’s nipples, causing her arms to briefly buckle.

Rebecca glares at her. “Stop it. You’ve pleasured me enough tonight.”

“There’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes and kisses her again, shifting to the side of her. Connie, ever thoughtful, angles herself so that Rebecca won’t have to crane her neck in the new position. Rebecca shows her approval by sliding her hand across Connie’s stomach and under the waistband on her boxers.

“You weren’t kidding,” she murmurs as she discovers that Connie is absolutely soaked. Connie shakes her head; she had not been exaggerated in how turned on she had been.  Her arousal has gotten to the point where some of it has begun to coat her inner thighs. 

Rebecca’s fingers explore the shape of Connie’s cunt, dragging through semi-familiar territory as she maps out everything in her brain. The location of her entrance to the location to her clitoral hood, how the textures change as she moves from inner to outer labia. She drags a nail over Connie’s clit and Connie groans.

“Fuck…”

Rebecca returns her finger there, this time with the pad of her finger instead of her nail. Connie inhales sharply and grabs her wrist.

Rebecca freezes immediately. “Too much?”

“Start off with big circles, two or three fingers, indirect touching,” Connie advises, releasing Rebecca’s wrist as soon as she has her attention.

“Sensitive?” Rebecca asks softly, starting to move her fingers in the way Connie requested. Connie nods breathlessly and closes her eyes, focusing on the sensation. Rebecca soon learns she only needs to watch the butch’s face for cues about how to rub; she’s an open book. She can feel the biker getting tenser and more worked up, closer to the edge.

Soon Rebecca is making tight circles, alternating on and off her clit; Connie starts to shake. She grabs ahold of her hip and moans. The scientist strokes faster and Connie starts to swear blindly, her Boston accent rough and loud as her hand digs into Rebecca’s hip.

“Close?” Rebecca asks, because although she can sort of tell with the way her body is bowing and tensing like a longbow, it’s hard to tell exactly where she is from the outside.

Connie nods frantically, eyes closed, lip bitten. Rebecca keeps it up, pulling stroke after stroke of wetness over her clit until the butch is a whimpering, moaning mess. Her hand flexes against Rebecca’s hip, grips again, and then she’s gone. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out; her body jackknifes in spasms as her orgasm crashes through her. She rolls towards Rebecca, tugging her close as her entire body quakes.

Rebecca slides her hand from her clit when she calms, then unabashedly wipes Connie’s own wetness on her boxers. She’s not much of a cuddler, but it’s clear Connie is, so she drapes her arm around Connie’s waist and listens to the sound of her breathing evening out.

“I refuse to believe you have not had sex in ten years,” is the first thing out of the butch’s mouth once she finally regains language back.

Rebecca chuckles. Connie leans in and kisses her. Rebecca kisses her back. Connie shifts and catches a glance at the alarm clock over the scientist’s shoulder; she groans. At Rebecca’s sharp look, she grumbles out, “It’s four thirty in the morning.”

Rebecca frowns. “I don’t think it is a good idea for you to leave for Vegas tonight.”

Connie looks at her as if she has lost every single marble ever in existence. “I was not really planning on it, to be honest.”

The scientist’s heart flutters. She’s not sure if it’s the flirting or the post-coital bliss but there is something about this woman that is different. That feels right. She should be bothered by the fact that Connie does not want to leave, that Connie will end up sleeping beside her in her bed tonight, that Connie has made it past her defenses at all, but she is not.

However, Connie does have people waiting for her in Vegas, which worries her. “What about your friends?”

Connie shrugs. “They knew where I was going. I’ll get the third degree tomorrow, but they won’t be worried.”

Rebecca thinks about _tomorrow_. How it means that Connie will be leaving. How it means, normally, she’d be getting up for work in two hours. She does not think work tomorrow is a wise decision. While she does not really have a boss to report in to, she knows at some point tomorrow she’ll have to call in and say she’s not coming in.

A hand on her hip brings her back to reality.

“If you are not comfortable with me sleeping here in your bed, I can go sleep on the couch.”

Rebecca shakes her head. “No, it’s fine.”

Connie smiles. “Good.” She gives Rebecca a squeeze, then moves to get up. She pads off into the bathroom and Rebecca rolls over, undoes the covers, gets under them. By the time Connie comes back from the bathroom, the smaller woman has fallen asleep. Connie goes for the lights and then crawls in bed.

Rebecca Gorin does not seem like much of a cuddler, but when Connie Williams wraps an arm around her, she cuddles back instinctively in her sleep.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Connie wakes up, the spot in the bed next to her is empty. She checks the alarm clock—it’s almost noon. She lays and listens for the typical sounds of a morning routine, but hears nothing. There is no water running from a shower, no sounds from the kitchen, no burble of the TV.

It feels like a gut punch to the stomach. Has Rebecca left?

She lumbers out of bed and gets changed back into yesterday’s clothes. All of her clothes are in her friend’s sidecar an hour away. She loosely rolls up the sleeves of her shirt and then goes out into the house to find Rebecca.

She’s not in the kitchen or the bathroom or the living room, but Rebecca had obviously been in them since last night, because all of the stacks of paper have vanished. Her car is still in the garage, so she has not left, at least not on wheels. Then Connie remembers the door across the hall from Rebecca’s bedroom, the room she assumed to be a guest bedroom.

When she goes up to it, the door is ajar. She peaks in; she can just see Rebecca sitting at a desk, in what looks like a bathrobe. She’s on the phone.

“—care that she’s—look, Steven, there’s no point pushing it until it’s clear that brain development is on track.”  Silence. She’s listening to the person on the other line. Connie pushes the door open a little bit.

The extra bedroom has been converted to a study, with bookshelves of thick tomes lining the walls. The desk is next to the window, facing the street, and the mid-afternoon sunlight is streaming through the window. Rebecca’s hair glints in the light like it is infused with strands silver and gold. Her glasses are on, and she’s scowling, looking down at some papers on her desk.

“ _Excuse me?”_ The person on the other end of the line has said something that is clearly off-putting. Rebecca looks aghast, then angry. Her face contorts and she spits out, “Here’s some advice in return: focus on your own experiment and butt out of mine.” Then she slams the phone down on the receiver. “Sexist piece of shit.”

Connie makes a sympathetic face, even though Rebecca can’t see it. She knows much about sexist assholes. Rebecca sighs and shuffles papers on her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. Connie gently knocks on the doorframe to announce her presence in the room; Rebecca nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Sorry,” Connie chuckles, opening the door fully. “I didn’t mean to startle you. When you weren’t in bed when I woke up, I went looking for you.”

“It’s….it’s alright.” Rebecca shoves her glasses (on their little beaded chain, much like a librarian’s) up into her hair and stands up. Her hair is loosely pulled back and her bathrobe is more of a dressing gown, a dark navy blue thing that comes down almost to her ankles. Her feet are bare. Connie is transfixed.

Rebecca gestures at her. “So are you leaving?”

“I—soon, probably.” Connie fantasizes that Rebecca looks a bit sad at that.

“Are you hungry?” Rebecca asks, a bit awkwardly. “I don’t have a lot, but I have eggs.”

“Oh—that would be—only if you want to. I can stop somewhere on the way.”

“There’s nowhere to stop,” Rebecca informs her. There really is not—the closest food in between Indian Springs and Las Vegas is in Las Vegas. The scientist crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not putting you out on the road hungry.”

“Then eggs will be fine.”

The scientist chivvies her away from the door and into the kitchen, away from whatever in that room is so important. Most likely related to the work Connie is not allowed to know anything about. After a brief search of the pantry and the refrigerator, Rebecca declares their breakfast options have expanded to eggs or English muffins. Connie suggests poached eggs with toasted English muffins; Rebecca concurs.

Despite Rebecca’s insistence that she can handle breakfast, Connie feels bad imposing, so they both end up cooking. Rebecca carefully poaches the eggs while Connie toasts the English muffin slices ‘properly’ in a sauce pan, then butters them within an inch of their short, now-crunchy lives.

Connie puts the plates of food on the small kitchen table, then fetches the catsup she saw in the door of the fridge. Rebecca reaches around her for the Dijon mustard and for a second they are both pressed together in a way that makes Connie long for their intimacy the night before. The scientist pulls back hastily; she obviously feels the same way, because she’s flushing. She beats a retreat for the table, then sheepishly comes back for silverware.

Connie sits down at the neglected looking second place at the kitchen table and gently taps salt and pepper over her eggs, then watches Rebecca methodically spread mustard over her two half slices of English muffin with a butter knife. Connie reaches for the catsup and shakes a little out over her eggs, the picks up one half of muffin with egg and takes a bite.

Rebecca shoots her an exasperated look and pointedly picks up a fork. Connie ignores her and continues to eat her English muffin and eggs with her hands. Rebecca murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “You’re such a butch.”

Breakfast is not a complicated affair, so it is over quickly. Connie helps with the dishes. When they are in the rack drying, and there are no more excuses, Connie sighs. “Guess I gotta go get my chaps and get going.”

Rebecca looks sad, but nods. Connie disappears to get her chaps and comes back with them back on. Rebecca notices something is missing. “Where’s your vest?”

“Out with the bike,” Connie replies. She goes to get her boots from the mudroom, then puts them on at the kitchen table. Rebecca watches her lace them up and tie a sturdy double knot. God, she doesn’t want her to go.

Connie stands, brushes imaginary dirt off her legs. She’s become more emotionally closed off since breakfast was done. She is hurting, too. “Guess…I should be hitting the road.”

“I suppose so.”

Rebecca follows her out to the garage, where Connie pulls on her vest and goes to open the door. Rebecca lets her go; she stands by the bike and waits for her to get on. She can’t find the words so she presses her lips together.

“If I’m ever back down this way, I’ll drop in,” Connie says. Her voice sounds rough. “Try not to wait another ten years to have sex again?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just jump the next butch dyke that comes into town.” Connie doesn’t smile. Rebecca winces. “Thank you for…last night.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Rebecca wants to kiss her before she goes so badly. She wants to feel her strength and run her hands through her hair one last time. But she can’t bring herself to do it; she can’t work up the courage.

Connie kicks her bike to life, filling the garage with exhaust and the loud rumbling of motorcycle engine. She puts on her helmet and their eyes connect for a second; Rebecca’s façade crumbles for a moment and she grips her own arm hard to bring it back.

Connie nods at her, then carefully backs down the driveway. On the road she turns back, give Rebecca one last longing glance, then revs the engine and pulls out down the road.

Rebecca leans against the wall of her garage and is absolutely mortified with herself when she finds herself starting to cry.

-/-

Connie kicks herself the entire drive back to Boston. She can’t believe she did not exchange numbers with Rebecca before she left. She can’t believe she did not give her her address. She can’t believe she left in the first place. Her butch buddies tease her for getting so wrapped up with a one night stand, but she can’t help it. Rebecca is perfect. And Rebecca lives in Nevada.

The trip home is another four days long. They ride through state after state, and Connie thinks of Rebecca. Every night, when they stop to sleep, she falls asleep picturing the older woman in her mind. She tries to recall every single detail so she will not forget the amazing woman she stumbled across in the high desert outside of Las Vegas.  

.

.

.

Rebecca is distracted for an entire week. She can’t focus on anything at work, but she also can’t focus on anything at home. She has to wash her sheets because they smell like Connie.  Then she changes her sheets to a different bedspread entirely because just the sight of them reminds her of the biker. She wonders if she gets back to Boston safe.

Icarus notices the change in her. It happens the afternoon Rebecca is evaluating her developmental progress, or is trying to. She sits on the floor and takes notes on a clipboard while Icarus ‘plays’ with something that is actually a sophisticated puzzle meant to test her mental development. She gets distracted and the toddler, not yet three, leaves her game and instead toddles up to her. She grips Rebecca’s lab coat arm firmly with one hand, then rests the other on the scientist’s cheek.

Rebecca is startled by the touch. She looks up and into the soulful eyes of the chimera child, who is staring intently at her face. Rebecca pulls away and, out of habit more than spite, scolds her for the contact. Experiments, even as toddlers, are _never_ allowed to initiate touch with doctors, scientists, or guards.

Icarus’ face contorts for a brief moment, but she knows better than to cry. She stares defiantly at her for a second, then goes back to her game.

Rebecca has to leave the room.

-/-

Rebecca regains something akin to normalcy about a week and a half after her time with Connie. She lies to Miss Kathy and says that after she was sober enough to drive, Connie left for Las Vegas and she went straight home.

“She didn’t…proposition you, did she?” Miss Kathy asks in a low voice.

Rebecca chokes on her martini. She definitely does not think of the cool metal of her car on her legs or the way Connie’s finger felt inside her. She shakes her head. “No. I would never let her.”

“Good. Those queers need to keep away from corrupting the upstanding women of our country like you.”

Rebecca bites back a quip about how limited Miss Kathy’s views on feminism is if she can believe true feminism is her owning a restaurant and Rebecca having a doctorate, but not the fact that Rebecca has identified as a lesbian for twenty years. She also refrains from making a shot at Miss Kathy’s misguided views on patriotism.

She drinks her martini and eats her fries, then pays her tab and quickly leaves.

.

.

.

Two weeks later, when Rebecca is flipping through her mail, in amongst her magazine subscriptions and various junk mail she finds a postcard from Boston. It’s bright yellow and says ‘Greetings from Boston’ across the front. There are illustrations of famous Boston sites in the letters spelling the name of the city. It’s from Connie.

_Rebecca,_

_Interested in staying in touch?_

_Connie_

_P.S. Sorry for the postcard. You aren’t in the phonebook. I looked up your address at the Post Office._

Connie’s handwriting is surprisingly neat, even it if is at a bit of a slant. The stroke of every ‘t’ crossing stretches across several letters. Her address points to an apartment in Winthrop. Her last name is Williams.

Rebecca sits down to write back. She agonizes about every word she says. She rewrites it several times until she finally has a letter she can send back.

-/-

_April 20, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I’m afraid the telephone you saw me talking on is a direct line to my work, which is why I am not in the phone book. That being said, does one normally correspond with their one night stand? This must be new protocol that I am not aware of. The Boston Lesbian Handbook must have changed dramatically since I left._

_I’m not entirely sure what you hope to gain by maintaining correspondence with me, as there is very little about my life that I can share with you. However, if you wish to send me the occasional letter I’m sure I would not be opposed, and would write back accordingly._

_Yours,_

_Rebecca_

-/-

Connie is slightly perplexed by Rebecca’s letter. She reads it on her break at work, because the mail arrived just as she was leaving for her shift. She’s grateful that she wrote back at all, of course, but the letter sounds cold and stilted. It’s nothing like the woman she shared a bed with. But it is, she reflects, a bit like the woman she met in the bar the first time, and the one she struggled to be when she left. The one who hid behind a mask of superior indifference and haughtiness; the woman with every guard in the world up and primed.

She crafts her response as she walks the halls of her work; it’s not until that weekend that she has time to sit down and write everything down.

_May 1, 1986_

 

_Rebecca;_

_I’m glad you want to stay in touch. I was afraid you would not want to. I greatly enjoyed our brief time together and I’m glad I am not losing your humor and sarcasm from my life._

_If you cannot tell me about your life, I’ll tell you about mine. I work at Deer Island Prison, which is a short term, medium security facility. We get the drunks and the disorderlies, mostly. I worked at a high security before so this is nothing._

_When you lived in Boston, did you ever go to The V Bar in Cambridge? I think it has been around long enough. That is where I spend my Friday nights. I noticed a record player in your…study? What does Dr. Rebecca Gorin listen to? You grew up in the 60s like me, so I hope you share my Beach Boys and Beatles guilty pleasures._

_I look forward to your letter!_

_Connie_

_-/-_

_May 16, 1986_

_Connie;_

_I hope this letter finds you well. It has been quite a while since I’ve heard about Deer Island Prison. I’ve heard that the state is considering razing it in order to build a water treatment plant to comply with the Clean Water Act. Is this accurate?_

_I heard about The V while I was still at MIT but it opened shortly after I left Boston. During my time at MIT, if I went out to lesbian bars I went to Charlie’s or Saint’s. After I got caught up in a raid at Charlie’s I stopped going out to bars as much. Besides, at the time I was entering the final phase of my dissertation and had little time for going out._

_Best,_

_Rebecca_

_P.S. ‘Dr. Rebecca Gorin’ listens to jazz, classical, and yes, The Beatles. Shocking._

_-/-_

_June 1, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_Happy belated Memorial Day. Still catching shit about you from the other butches. They messed with me our entire BBQ last weekend. I haven’t told them we’re writing, or I never would hear the end of that either._

_Charlie’s shut down last year, which is a shame. It was a good bar, and had the best onion rings. Do you remember they would serve them with catsup and French onion dip? I can’t believe we never ran into each other there—I used to go there all the time._

_Was it the raid of ‘72 that you got caught up in? It would be about right. That was a big one that year; I had picked up a shift and wasn’t there, but many of my friends were. A lot of them got taken downtown. Were you?_

_Connie_

_P.S. Yes, the Prison is talking about shutting down. I think the state is still arguing about it with the city, and both are waiting for Reagan and Congress to stop fighting about it and make up their minds._

_P.P.S. Happy Pride Month!_

_-/-_

_June 10, 1986_

_Connie,_

_A very happy Pride month to you as well. I hope you are enjoying yourself and availing yourself of the many gay bars Boston has to offer._

_You also went to Charlie’s? The world really is small. I’m not very surprised; it was a very popular bar for a while. I was never there on the weekends, so it is very well possible we simply missed each other by mere days. As for the raid, it was the one in 1972. I had on enough feminine attire that I was not detained by the police, but the butch I was with at the time (Al) was taken downtown. If I recall, the police beat her fairly badly that night after they took her to the station._

_I’m sorry to hear about the prison possibly shutting down, but I am heartened to know that it is in the name of bettering the environment. Will your job be terminated when the prison shuts down, or will they find someplace else in the system for you?_

_Best,_

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_June 23, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I appreciate your concern about my job. If/when the prison shuts down, the guards and prisoners will be transferred to other facilities around the area. Hopefully I am transferred somewhere in Boston, as I like my apartment. Realistically, though, Winthrop is a fairly far from the rest of the prisons, so I will most likely have to move anyway. However, I do not think this is close in the future, so I have no need to worry about it yet._

_In your last letter you mentioned your past partner was a butch named Al. This wasn’t Al Menkowitz by any chance, was it? I worked construction with her in the summer of ’70. That would be quite the coincidence! She moved to Seattle a couple of years ago. I wanted to go up and see her when I was out there, but she didn’t leave a forwarding address with the Post Office before she moved. Have you kept in contact with her at all?_

_Regarding the raid, I’m glad to know you weren’t seriously hurt, booked, or charged. I’ve been swept up in more raids than I can count; there hasn’t been one in a while, though. I’m not sure if that’s because the economy is doing better or if the world is becoming that much more tolerable._

_Connie_

_-/-_

_July 1, 1986_

_Connie,_

_By the time you receive this it will probably be past the 4 th of July. Do they still firework viewings on the Esplanade or have they moved them to a larger location?_

_Regarding Al, her last name was Menkowitz, so it is very possible we know the same Al. I have not kept in contact with anyone from Boston, so I know as much as you do about her situation in Seattle._

_Regarding raids, in my experience raids come with the election cycle. Sheriffs and Mayors up for re-election often take a hard stance on gay bars in the months leading up to an election to show they are tough on queers. It raises brownie points among some of their constituents. If I recall, your election cycle is coming to a head this November, yes? Do be careful; I would hate to not hear from you because an overzealous member of the Boston PD broke a part of you and made it so you are unable to write. I know you’re a butch, but please avoid antagonizing the officers (although I realize they sometimes will not give you the choice). _

_Best,_

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_July 15, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_Sorry for the late reply, I went on a long ride with the butches the weekend of the 4 th and did not get your letter until several days after. Lots of new prisoners came in with the holiday, so it has been all hands go at work. This is the first quiet I’ve had to myself in a week. _

_I will do my best not to brawl with a cop, but if they hit me, I will hit back. You know how it is. I cannot make any promises if they start it, but I’ll make sure to end it quickly with you in mind. _

_It reached 99 degrees in Boston this week. I’m sure this is a laughable temperature for you in Nevada, but here they have had to set up cooling centers all around the city. Apparently the hospitals are full of heat stroke victims; thankfully my apartment has air conditioning, but I know there are some who are not so lucky._

_Connie_

_P.S. Yes, Boston does still hold firework viewings on the Esplanade. I avoid it like the plague._

_-/-_

_July 20, 1986_

_Connie,_

_You are correct in assuming that 99 degrees is practically balmy in comparison to the summer heat of Nevada. It broke 115 yesterday, just one degree below the all-time high. My house is air conditioned, but my car is not; I’ve been going to work early and coming home late, when it has cooled (although ‘cooled’ is relative—it is generally about 80 degrees when I leave work)._

_Am I really talking to you about the weather? That is so banal._

_Here is your proof that I am, occasionally, an active member of the queer community. I went into town (Las Vegas) this weekend and picked up several books; two fiction novels and a histopictography of the Great Migration. I visited the gay bookstore as well. I browsed and nothing caught my eye, but the Bohemian Bugle advertised that they were collecting preorders for the first collection of “Dykes to Watch Out For,” so I put in my preorder. Have you read that strip? It’s properly ridiculous, of course. If you haven’t, I highly suggest preordering the collection for yourself._

_Best,_

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_August 1, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I’m afraid to say I don’t read much—I’m usually on the bike during the weekends and after work I come home and go directly to bed. However, by the look of your bookshelves I have a feeling you read extensively. I’ve read a couple of the Bechdel strips but not all of them; I don’t take the Gay Community News but I’ll read it if someone leaves it behind at the bar. If you recommend it so highly, I’ll check out Glad Day and see if I can get it there. Usually I’m only in there for patches and buttons, but just for you I might actually buy a book. Any other recommendations while I’m there?_

_Connie_

_-/-_

_August 7, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I’m afraid, since I do not do much besides go to the grocery store (the largest of which that has any selection, I’m afraid to inform you, is in Las Vegas), reading is really all I can do out here. My reading rate has increased exponentially since I moved to Indian Springs; the TV signal here is abysmal and the radio stations are definitely not up to snuff. There is only so much NPR a woman can stand. Ergo, reading._

_As for the recommendations you requested, if nothing else pick up Audre Lorde’s “Zami” and Adrienne Rich’s “The Dream of a Common Language.” They are beautiful works. I also highly recommend Gertrude Stein’s “Tender Buttons” and Lisa Alther’s “Kinflicks,” although “Tender Buttons” is a bit cerebral and may not be to your taste.  Your mileage may also vary regarding Ruby Mae Brown’s “Rubyfruit Jungle.” It was popular amongst the lesbians at MIT when it came out, but it ridicules butch culture in a way I am not fond of._

_Enjoy,_

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_August 25, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I’m very sorry for taking so long to respond but your prediction came true. The V was raided two weeks ago. The swelling in my hand has only just come down.  Not broken, just a bad sprain._

_I have been reading the books you suggested. Lots of time to read b/c I’m at desk duty at work. Loved Rich and ‘Kinflicks.’ I’ll write more when my hand is better._

_Connie_

_-/-_

_September 2, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I am sorry to hear about the raid…were you booked and charged, or just booked? I hope you have been putting adequate compression on your sprain and resting the required amount. I would hate for you to have complications or a secondary injury from not treating it right._

_When your hand is up to it, I would love to hear your thoughts on the collection of Rich poems._

_Take care,_

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_September 10, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I was only booked and released, as is their custom. I bled all over their holding cell, which serves them right. I sprained my hand punching a window, not a cop. They trapped a bunch of us in a back room and we were trying to get an underage kid out. She got out, but my hand got pretty cut up (and sprained) as a result. Swelling is gone, and the cuts are healing up. Only one required stitches._

_As for the books, may I tell you in person? The V got a call from a friend of Al’s femme that Al, her femme, and another butch/femme were killed in a car wreck last week. They extended the invitation to everyone for a combined wake in Seattle on the first Saturday of October. I’ll be taking a plane across the country, then head back a few days later. They asked us to extend the invitation to anybody Al and her femme knew, which means you. I know it is not exactly close, but it is closer to your side of the world than Boston._

_Let me know._

_Connie_


	4. Part 4

Over the course of her several month correspondence with Connie, Rebecca envisions many reunions with her. None of them involve attending the wake of her ex-girlfriend in Seattle, but that is apparently the mockery the Universe has made of her life. She’s sure the head honchos Sanctuary would have a fit if they found out her trip to Seattle was for personal, Boston-root reasons. Despite this, she goes anyway, spinning a lie about researching lore that could lead to the inspiration for a new chimera.

It works. God, men are stupid if they think something will get them money. She tells them it will take a week, gets a hotel room in Seattle on Sanctuary’s dime. She sends Connie a note before she goes, giving her the address of her hotel in case she wants to meet up the night before the wake. Connie is flying in the Friday before.

She is reasonably certain Connie will show, but she has no idea when. She hates to think it, but she’s _nervous_. The two of them never addressed the heavy feeling between them before Connie left, and they have skirted around it in their letters. She wonders if they’ll talk about it, finally, this weekend. She wonders if they’ll have sex again. She hopes they’ll do both.

The phone in her hotel room rings; it’s almost nine o’clock. Connie’s flight was scheduled to get in at seven fifteen, which means it is almost definitely her. Nobody else knows she is here. She scrambled to answer it. “Hello?”

It’s the front desk. “Miss Gorin, there’s a Connie Williams here asking to see you?”

Rebecca swallows past the lump in her throat. “I’m expecting her, you can send her up.”

Two minutes later, there’s a knock on her door. Rebecca goes to answer it, knowing full well who is on the other side. Still, when she opens the door and sees Connie on the other side, it’s like her entire body sings. Her hair is freshly cut and she’s wearing a Carhartt jacket over another plaid button up. She looks tired, but she lights up at the sight of Rebecca.

“Hello, stranger,” Connie says, with a little lopsided grin.

 Rebecca’s heart is gone. Who is she fooling? She loves this woman. “Hello yourself.”

Then Connie is moving forward; she wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her. The kiss is intense, but in a good way. Rebecca’s knees go a bit weak. She kisses her back, reaching up and touching that beautifully shorn brown hair. Connie pulls her tighter.

After a long moment, Connie pulls away, looking sheepish. “I didn’t read too in between the lines of your letters, right?”

“You didn’t,” Rebecca replies, a little breathlessly and fairly huskily.

“Was that kiss welcome?”

“More than.”

Connie grins. “Good. I had hoped so. It’s gotten incredibly old to fend off femmes at the bars when I did not know exactly how the woman in Nevada felt.”

“You could take a leaf out of my book and just not put in anymore appearances at the lesbian bars,” Rebecca teases, although secretly she is flattered—and a little bit jealous.  

“Then who would bust the underage butch out a window when the window lever is broken and we need to send her down the fire escape to freedom?”

“Is that what happened?” Rebecca asks airily, pretending disinterest. Connie squeezes her waist to get her attention, then kisses her again the second she looks her way. Rebecca hums softly, kisses her back, then pulls away. “Coming in?”

Connie shrugs. “I thought you might be interested in dinner?”

Rebecca considers; she had not eaten yet, too nervous about the prospect of Connie arriving to do more than nibble all day. “Did you eat on the plane?”

“Those awful meals? No thank you.”

“I haven’t eaten dinner, either, so that settles it. Let me get my purse.” Rebecca slips out of Connie’s embrace and gets it, along with her coat, before coming back to the door.

“You lead the way. I’ve absolutely no idea what there is to eat in Seattle.”

“I’ve been here four days longer than you and I’m suddenly an expert?” Connie shrugs. Rebecca sighs in exasperation. “There’s a bar down the street.”

“Is it good?”

Rebecca shrugs and chivvies her out, locking the hotel room door behind her. “It’s a bar. But we need to talk.”

The butch looks pained. “Can we do that after dinner?”

Rebecca sighs. “Fine. But it’s getting late, so I’d like to hurry this up.”

“Alright.” Connie wraps an arm around her as they walk down the empty hotel room corridor. “So, tell me. What have you seen while you’ve been here?”

.

.

.

They tumble back to the hotel after a few drinks and good (if greasy) bar food. Connie gets the concierge to pull her luggage from storage and bring it up to the room. They had never discussed sharing a room, but both of them know that two separate rooms is a stupid idea. As Connie gets her luggage in order, Rebecca takes a shower.

As she walks out of the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a towel with another around her hair, she is immediately drawn into the arms of the butch dyke. Rebecca gasps as Connie presses kisses to her neck from behind her. Then she swats her arm.

“None of that yet. You said we’d talk after dinner.”

“You walk out here in nothing but a towel an’ expect me to focus?” Connie grumbles in her ear.

Rebecca is having none of it. She swats her arm again. “Yes, I do. We’ve waited seven months, we can wait another thirty minutes while we have a serious conversation.”

She has a point, and Connie knows it. She sighs in acknowledgement and releases her. Rebecca gets her robe from the hotel closet; she pulls it on over the towel, fastens it securely with the belt, then lets the towel drop. Connie tries not to look too disappointed.

Rebecca sits on the bed and Connie sits beside her; she can tell something is bothering Rebecca by the way her forehead creases. Then she pinches the bridge of her nose. Connie knows it’s serious.

“Connie,” Rebecca says softly, “I need you to listen….I need you to understand something if you…if _we’re_ going to do this.”

“Have a relationship, you mean?”

Rebecca gestures flippantly. “Yes, that. A relationship. The fact of the matter is, that if we allow this pan out, I’m afraid you might have to make some sacrifices you aren’t willing to make.”

“Like what?”

“My work at…” Rebecca pauses, winces. “My work.”

“Your extremely secret, important classified science.”

Rebecca’s lips quirk up a bit. “Yes. My classified science.” She pauses, sighs again. “I will never be able to share with you what I do. You have to understand this work…it is very constricting. I contractually signed myself and my work to them until they have seen their mission through to the end. My hours are extremely varied. I wouldn’t—you would have to do most of the leg work if you wanted to see me, because I am not allowed to travel for reasons unrelated to work. The only reason I am here is because I told them I had important research to do in Seattle.”

“Did you?” Connie asks, softly.

Rebecca shakes her head. “No.” She is fussing with her hands in her lap. Connie covers them in her own. “I wasn’t supposed to get this attached to you. Who gets attached to a one night stand?!”

“The two of us, apparently,” Connie murmurs. She reaches up and gently unties the towel holding Rebecca’s hair together. Her hair spirals down, and Connie moves it to one side, running her fingers through it. “Rebecca, I sent you that postcard because I knew there was something about you that was special.”

The scientist makes a face.

“No, listen. I don’t usually have one night stands.”

“Neither do I,” Rebecca murmurs bitterly.

“And yet we both were drawn to each other and we did, despite our usual personal codes. And we both enjoyed it, didn’t we?”

Rebecca nods. It had been some of the best sex of her life.

“So we are compatible that way. We also enjoy talking, or you would not have written me back. And we obviously enjoy each other’s company, because here we are. So…I’m confident if we tried this, really tried, and committed, we could do it. Don’t you?”

Rebecca wants nothing more than that. She nods.

“Good. First thing, then. Does your work allow you to have outside relationships?”

Rebecca nods. “Yes, but there must be no knowledge shared of what we do.”

“Then we can continue to write. If you can’t visit me, I will happily you….”

“Long distance relationships like this are not sustainable.”

“Then I’ll save up my money and move to Nevada,” Connie says firmly. “I’ll see about getting transferred.”

“You don’t even know if we’ll work,” she says, slightly desperately, gesturing erratically toward the ceiling.

“I have faith.”

Rebecca scoffs.

“You are beautiful and smart and make me smile, which is more than I can say for some of my relationships. Isn’t that enough?” Rebecca does not respond. Connie sighs. “You invited me here and have maintained correspondence with me, said you wanted the kiss and yet…why are you so against this?”

“Because it’s against everything I stand for.” _Because I love you, too. Because I don’t want to lie to you._

“Is it?” Connie asks. “Or are you just running away?”

Rebecca’s silence is deafening.

“If you’re running because you’re scared of how this relationship will work with your job, that’s fine. We can work something out so that you never have to tell me anything. If you’re scared of this relationship in the first place, then we might be doomed from the start.”

Rebecca licks her lips. “What if it is the second one?”

“Then I’ll do anything to convince you otherwise.” Connie lays a hand on her leg. “Give me the weekend. Let me show you we’re worth it.”

The scientist closes her eyes. She looks like she is struggling. Then she nods. “Alright. Fine.”

Connie presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Rebecca turns towards her, leans in, and presses a kiss directly onto her lips. Connie kisses her back gently, her hands finding her waist and holding her upright. Rebecca shifts closer, and Connie draws them fully onto the bed, despite the fact she is still fully clothed.  

“Connie, I don’t—”

“No sex,” the butch clarifies quickly. “You obviously have a lot you need to process and think about.”

“What if I want sex?” Rebecca asks softly.

Connie pushes her wet hair out of her face and presses a firm kiss to her forehead. “Raincheck, I think, for previously stated reasons.”

“Should have waited to take the shower.”

The butch laughs and gives her another kiss. “I need to shower, though. And change. And if I recall, you aren’t much of a cuddler anyway.”

“No,” Rebecca allows.

“Then you’ll be fine until I come back?”

“I’m sure I’ll survive somehow.” Her voice is wry, almost back to her usual candor.

Connie gives her one last kiss then pulls away and gets up. Rebecca watches Connie go in and out of the bathroom in her periphery. She hears the shower turn on. The bathroom door closes. Rebecca closes her eyes and thinks about the woman who asked her to come all this way and the fact that day immediately following the original letter of invitation, she had spun a lie to Sanctuary higher ups and by that evening was in the process of finding a travel agency to book a ticket to Seattle.

She knows exactly how she feels for this woman. The weekend grace is not to prove that they are compatible. It is not to prove that Connie feels for Rebecca as Rebecca feels for Connie. No, the weekend grace is to prove to Rebecca that Connie can handle a lifetime of not knowing.

She hopes against hope that Connie can, in fact, prove her wrong.

.

.

.

The next morning, Rebecca wakes up in Connie’s arms. Despite not having fallen asleep cuddling, at some point in the night, Connie’s arm has found its way around her waist. Rebecca, while not a fan of prolonged touch of an unsexual nature, is disturbingly fine with waking up hazy and warm with Connie in her bed.

It’s early; the sun is just starting to come in under the blackout curtains. Rebecca lays there for a moment, waking up, before trying to gently extricate herself from Connie. She is stopped by Connie’s hand squeezing her hip.

“Good morning.”

“You’re awake?” Rebecca asks, surprised.

“Nine o’clock in Boston.”

Connie is still on East Coast time. It makes sense, then, that she is already awake. “Is that when you normally get up?”

“Mmm, close enough.” Connie nuzzles into her hair, which Rebecca had pulled into a ponytail to dry overnight. She smells like Agree shampoo; Connie loves that smell. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Tolerably.” She actually woke up several times throughout the night, her body extremely not used to having a second person in the bed. But she doesn’t tell Connie that.

The butch hmm’s and rubs her hand over the satin of Rebecca’s pajama bottoms. “Do things look better in the morning?”

Rebecca reaches down and takes her hand, then places it firmly on her breast. “Undecided.”

Connie chuckles. “Cashing in on that rain check?”

“Mmm.”

The butch gently squeezes her breast; Rebecca exhales softly and nods for her to continue. Connie gives her a couple more squeezes, then runs the flat of her hand up and down Rebecca’s side and front. She arches to her touch.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” Connie murmurs as she palms Rebecca’s breast again, squeezing harder this time.

Rebecca gasps and presses back against her. “Long enough.”

“Since I left?”

“Nnmmm…classified.”

“Is that your go to answer for anything you don’t want to discuss?” Connie teases gently as she pinches and pulls on Rebecca’s nipple through her pajama top.

“We’re not—nnngh—discussing this right now.”

Connie snorts and reaches around, popping open the snaps on Rebecca’s top. “But you have been thinking about it?”

The scientist inhales as Connie’s hands slides in and over her chest. She barely respond, only shifts so Connie can have access to her other breast.

Connie obligingly palms it. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Have you?” Rebecca’s voice is weak; Connie has started twisting and pulling at her other nipple, and the combination of the stimulation and Connie talking in that goddamn Boston lit of hers is _really_ turning Rebecca on.

“Mmm.” Connie switches to the other nipple. “I’ve thought of all the ways I’ve wanted to pleasure you.”

Rebecca, to her extreme embarrassment, whimpers softly. Connie, damn her, knows _exactly_ what she is doing to her. The scientist slides her hand down into her bottoms and starts to stroke herself.

“That is very close to one of the ways I imagined. Only in mine, there was a strap on.”

“God, Connie,” Rebecca gasps, flushing hotly at the mental image that immediately presents itself. She closes her eyes and imagines the feeling of the toy pressing inside of her. It’s been ages since she has used a strap on with a partner, but not long at all since she has used a dildo. She knows what it would feel like quite well. Her legs quake involuntarily.

Connie leans in and kisses her neck, leaving off on her breasts to press down between her legs and rub Rebecca’s thighs. Rebecca spreads them for her to give her better access but does not take her hand off her clit. The satin of her pajamas is smooth under Connie’s touch; Connie squeezes near her apex and Rebecca whimpers again.

Connie decides she wants the pants off. She tugs their waistband and Rebecca gets the hint. She withdraws her hand and pushes her pajama bottoms and underwear off. They get dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

“How are you with penetration from behind?”

Rebecca shrugs. She has never tried it. Connie shifts and so does Rebecca. There’s a bit of rearranging; Connie pulls her legs open wide and angles her body in the way she knows will make it easy to slide a hand in from behind. Rebecca lets her. When Connie’s fingers slide into the wetness of Rebecca’s folds the scientist exhales in relief, leaning back against her.

“If I remember correctly, you prefer girth to g-spot stimulation.”

“I’ll happily take both,” Rebecca says shakily, then moans softly as Connie presses the tip of a now slick finger to her entrance. She presses back to it, and slowly Connie slides it inside her. “Fuck…”

The biker gently slides her finger in and out of her, cupping her sex from behind as she does so. Her arm presses against Rebecca’s ass; she has an extraordinarily well formed posterior. Rebecca reaches down and returns to rubbing her clit, her hips bucking a bit at the combination.

Despite Rebecca’s evident arousal, the position is not enough to get her off entirely. She decides they need to shift. “Connie…”

“Hmm?”

“I need…a different position.”

“Alright.” Connie slides her hand free and Rebecca rolls over, throwing her leg over Connie’s waist. Connie smiles at her assertiveness and returns her hand to Rebecca’s cunt, only this time teasing with two fingers instead of one.

Rebecca hisses happily and nuzzles her face into Connie white cotton shirt. Connie teases her a bit more, making sure she is ready for the girth. When Rebecca is practically whining, she finally presses her fingers into her. Rebecca groans and pushes her hips down to meet them.

“Better?” Connie asks.

Rebecca nods and after a moment of adjustment, starts moving her hips. Connie presses her fingers deep, dipping her knuckles in and out of her as she slides the tips of her fingers over Rebecca’s g-spot. Rebecca groans and starts to grow tight around her fingers.

“I’ve got your number now,” the biker murmurs, keeping her fingers moving at a steady pace that Rebecca can follow. “Extensive foreplay and a position that allows us to stimulate multiple spots simultaneously.”

Rebecca’s free hand fists in Connie’s shirt and she moans in response. Connie already knows what that moan means; less talking, more fucking. Rebecca picks up the pace and soon she is clenching around her, letting out the breathy moans that indicates her peak is not far off.

Rebecca peaks a few thrusts later, her hips rocking frantically. Connie expects to stop and pull out but Rebecca has other ideas. Still fresh off the crest of her first orgasm, she pushes at Connie with her weight and Connie finds herself tipping onto her back. She adjusts as Rebecca settles on top of her and kisses her fiercely, riding her fingers at a bruising speed. For this position to truly be effective, Connie thinks, they need a strap on. But they don’t have one, so Connie presses the meat of her palm into Rebecca’s clit as she continues to fuck herself on Connie’s fingers.  

Rebecca doesn’t come a second time, but she eventually settles on Connie’s chest and wraps her fingers in her hair. They kiss slowly, her speed on Connie’s fingers reduced to a lazy grind and press. Connie squeezes her ass with her free hand. It’s incredibly intimate.

“Alright up there?” Connie asks when Rebecca breaks the kiss. Rebecca nod; the movement dislodges a hair into her face. Connie’s hands are both occupied, so Rebecca has to get it herself.

“You can pull out. It feels good, but I’m not going to get anywhere.”

Connie nods and they gently separate. Rebecca rolls off, murmuring about the bathroom. Connie takes the opportunity to sit up and taste her fingers. Rebecca catches the motion in the mirrored surface of the closet door and looks back at her, an eyebrow raised. Connie shrugs, unabashed. Rebecca rolls her eyes and heads into the bathroom.

She comes back a few minutes later with a washcloth, which she tosses at Connie. Connie wipes the last of the residue off her fingers. Rebecca sits beside her and, surprisingly, puts a hand on Connie’s back. “Are you--?”

“No, I’m fine. Morning sex does not light the fire as much.”

“Hmm.”

Connie reaches over and tips her face up, kisses her gently. It’s the hand she used to pleasure her with; Rebecca can smell herself on Connie’s fingers. She pulls away, making a face. “Please wash that.”

The butch laughs. “Not a fan? It’s just cum.”

“I know, but the smell after the fact makes me slightly ill,” Rebecca confesses.

Connie gets up and heads for the bathroom. “Does that mean I’ll never get head from you?”

“I never said that.”

“Good to know,” Connie replies, then closes the door to the bathroom behind her. Rebecca takes advantage to unpack her clothing for the day. The wake is not until the evening, but she pulls out the [black jumpsuit](http://www.liketotally80s.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/tie-waist-jumpsuit-loft.jpg) and [accompanying wrap](https://images.ehive.com/accounts/3009/objects/images/k9vot6_1b2r_l.jpg) anyway. The jumpsuit is good enough for daytime wear, and wear it she will, considering how much she paid for it.

She pulls on clean underthings then slides into the jumpsuit. She is just tying the belt around her middle when Connie comes out of the bathroom. The butch dyke makes an appreciative noise and comes up behind her, securing the button and loop clasp at the back of her neck for her.

“Thank you.”

“You look amazing.”

“Thank you.” Rebecca goes to the window and opens the curtains, letting the light stream in. Then she sits at the hotel room desk, where she has her jewelry roll, make up, and haircare products already set out from the past week of being in residence. She pulls the elastic out of her hair, grabs her brush, then sets about brushing and pinning up her mane of hair.

Connie looks down at the wrap spread out on the bed. It’s black and lacey, but fashionably so. Definitely Rebecca. “This is nice, too. And here I thought you were just button ups and matching pant suits.”

The scientist rolls her eyes. Connie does not take offense. She reaches into her own luggage and pulls out the slacks and button up she had been planning on wearing to the wake. They need ironing. As Rebecca continues her toilette, Connie gets the ironing board and iron out of the closet.

“Did you have plans for us this morning?” Connie asks as she waits for the iron to heat up.

“Not particularly.”

“We’ll just have to figure something out. Preferably something that begins with breakfast.”

Connie catches Rebecca smiling. She quickly sets about ironing her pants and shirt while Rebecca puts on her make up. The funny face Rebecca makes while she puts on her mascara makes Connie smile to herself. She goes into the bathroom to change, and when she comes out Rebecca is sitting on the bed, pulling on a pair of pointed black leather shoes over sheer socks. She’s put in a small pair of dangle-y earrings.

Rebecca glances up as she comes out of the bathroom and takes her appearance in appreciatively. “Well don’t you clean up nicely?”

“Says the absolutely stunning woman sitting on the bed.”

“What did I say about flattery?” Rebecca asks, standing and coming over to smooth Connie’s collar. “Have you got a jacket that goes along with this?”

“Yes, but not for tonight. It’s just a wake.”

Rebecca hums and steps away, going to transfer her essentials into a purse that compliments her outfit. Connie puts on her boots, straps on a nice watch from her luggage, then gets her wallet.

“Have you been to Seattle before?” Rebecca asks, coming over to her after she’s done.

“Afraid not.”

“Then let’s go see it.”


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you reading "my imagination" have met Max already. Here is where I first wrote her. :)

After a morning and early afternoon exploring Seattle, Rebecca and Connie arrive at the lesbian bar the wake was being held at. WILDROSE had only opened two years ago but had been a favorite place for Al and her three friends to spend their time. It was in the Capitol Hill gayborhood of Seattle. Ergo, by the time Rebecca and Connie step in the front doors, it was full of queers.

“You recognize anybody in here?” Connie asks, looking around.

Rebecca scans the room; it’s mostly butches and femmes. Thankfully, she does not recognize any faces. She shakes her head.

Connie sighs. “There are two seats at the bar?”

Rebecca heads for it. The bartender is very busy, but eventually she takes their drink order. Rebecca orders her usual martini; Connie orders a Genesee Brown Lager.

As the bartender steps away, Rebecca eyes Connie. “Why did you just order a dark lager when the entire time I’ve known you you’ve drunk cream or wheat ale?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow and asks, incredulously, “Are you trying to _show off_ around these other butches with your _beer consumption_?”

Connie turns a bit red. “….Classified.”

Rebecca opens her mouth, then closes it. “I suppose I deserve that, don’t I?”

Connie shrugs, obviously a bit embarrassed. Rebecca sighs. “You don’t have to show off for me. Nobody else in this bar is going to take me home tonight.”

The bartender brings their drinks.

“It’s not about showing off, it’s about—”

“Becca? That you?” Rebecca freezes. A wiry butch of indeterminate age, wearing dark jeans, a dark t-shirt, and a spiky hair cut squeezes out of the crowd and pops up next to them. “Oh my goodness, it is you! You haven’t changed a bit. Fancy seeing you here!”

The scientist looks a bit faint. “Hello, Max…”

“Long time no see, right? It’s been what, ten years?”

“Fifteen,” she says tightly.

“Jeez, that long already?” Max pauses to think. “Wow, guess it has been. Time flies. Hey—can I get a gin? The cheapest you got. Thank you.”  Max tunes back in and seems to notice Connie for the first time. “Hey! Max Kushing. Nice to meet you.”

She reaches out a hand to shake. Connie takes it. “Connie Williams.”

Rebecca notices Connie’s hand squeezes Max’s for a bit too long and a bit harder than necessary. Her voice drops just a tad as she introduces herself. She gives Connie a little kick. “Stop it,” she hisses. She has no time for the butch politics of posturing in an otherwise tense situation.

Max would have to be thick not to notice the exchange. She looks between then, then grins. “You guys together?”

Rebecca looks at Connie, then nods. Connie tries to hide a look of surprise; thankfully Max is not looking her way.

“Well, that’s good. Shame you never gave me a chance, ‘Becca.”

“Perhaps it’s because you flirted with me when I was with other women.”

Max shrugs, turns to Connie. “I’ve been trying to get with her for years. Since—well—Boston.”

Connie looks a little hard-faced. “Is that how you two know each other?”

“Yup. I was in Boston for seminary school and ‘Becca kept coming into the bar I went to at night. That was when you were with Al, right?”

Rebecca looks extremely uncomfortable, but nods. “Yes.” Then, to Connie, “Max is a pastor.”

“No shit?”

“Queer people can also be people of the Lord,” Max says evenly, then looks at Rebecca. “Shame you don’t agree.”

“It’s not that I don’t agree that Queer people can’t be people of God, it’s that I do not think this queer person can be a person of God. For obvious reasons.”

“But The Lord created science! How can you not celebrate something that He—”

“It didn’t work fifteen years ago, Max,” Rebecca replies tetchily, overriding her before she can get started. “What makes you think it will work now?”

The bartender takes the opportunity to slide Max her gin. She takes it and uses it to gesture more dramatically. “You could say that about a lot of things.”

“I have nothing against organized religion and you know it.” Rebecca takes a sip of her drink. “It has just never been for me.”

“You just never attended the right church.”

“Lots people say that about lesbians and men,” Connie says shortly, clearly growing tired of Max. “Doesn’t make it true. I don’t have to sleep with a dick to know I don’t want one.”

The pastor looks at Connie and cracks a grin. “Jeez, she’s just like you. Where’d you pick her up?”

“Creech Air Force Base.”

Rebecca chokes on her martini. She looks at the bigger butch, who seems nonchalant with her blatant and rather bold-faced lie.

The pastor seems to believe it, though, so that’s something. “No shit. That where you disappeared off to, Becca? A military contract?”

Rebecca nods, partially out of shock.

Max whistles. “Never woulda called that. You in the Air Force, too?” The question is directed at Connie. She nods. “That’s great. Glad to know there’s still dykes in the military! Republicans can’t get rid of us that easily.”

Rebecca can only stare at Connie. What is she _doing?_

Max opens her mouth to say something else, but is overridden by the tap of a mic. Everyone turns towards the temporary stage, where a femme has gotten up to announce that personal statements about the victims are about to start. She requests people to come forward; Max drifts away with only a cursory goodbye.

Connie moves close to Rebecca under the pretense of getting napkins to wipe the condensation off her mostly untouched glass of lager. “You okay?”

Rebecca nods, then sighs and rolls her neck. Connie places a hand in the small of her back. She can feel the tension locking up her spine; Rebecca is _not_ fine.

“Becca, huh?” she asks, trying to take her mind off it.

Rebecca swirls the tacky plastic sword with its requisite olive around in her martini, looking a little distant. “They called me that in Boston...”

“Not a fan?”

“It’s just been…a while.” She takes the sword out of her drink and pops the olive in her mouth.

Connie rubs her back softly, then reaches over for her beer. She braces herself, then takes a sip. She shudders. “God, I hate lager.”

Rebecca shakes her head fondly. “Don’t be a show off next time.”

“Gonna drink it though. Shit’s expensive.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Rebecca says, but reaches over and takes a sip of Connie’s beer for her. “This is nothing. I’ve had coffee that is bitterer than this.”

“Stay over there and drink your martini,” Connie tells her, but she’s teasing and they both know it. Rebecca takes another sip of Connie’s beer to prove a point, then gives it back to her and finishes her martini.

Someone starts speaking at the microphone, but neither Connie nor Rebecca are really listening. Connie faces towards them at least, out of politeness, but she’s really scanning the crowd and drinking her beer. When she’s done, and nobody on stage has said anything of substance, she turns to Rebecca.

“Want to get out of here before Max comes back?”

“Yes.”

Rebecca pays their tab. They wait for a break in the speakers before making their escape. They end up walking through the Capitol Hill neighborhood, letting the alcohol burn out of their systems. It’s still early evening and mostly light outside—most of the shops and eateries are open and bustling.

Connie wants to check in, ask questions, but knows that this is not the time for her to do so. Rebecca will tell her what she needs to know when she needs to know it, and on Rebecca’s terms, not Connie’s. So the butch simply puts her hand back in the small of Rebecca’s back and rubs with her thumb to let her know she’s there.

They step into a park and walk along a path by a soccer field. The sprinklers have been turned on and are watering it.

“Max and Al had a huge fight over me.”

Connie looks over at her, surprised she’s speaking so readily about it already. “Really?”

Rebecca nods. “As you might have been able to guess, Max has always quite literally considered herself God’s gift to women.”

“She did give off a bit of that vibe.”

Rebecca looks a little wry. “Yes, well, she went a little too far in front of Al one night.”

“I bet that went well.”

“It went about as well as could be expected. Al didn’t break her, but she came damn close. Max kept her distance after that, but always made sure to keep it clear that she was still interested.”

“Some people never learn.”

“Mmm, no.”

Connie frowns. “She…didn’t expect me to fight her, did she?”

“I don’t think she knew what to expect…although you were posturing pretty hard.” Connie has the decency to look slightly ashamed of herself. Rebecca reaches over and tugs gently on her belt loop to get her attention. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?” Connie was surprised. “You told me to stop.”

“Because I knew Max would escalate, and I didn’t want there to be a brawl at Al’s wake.”

Connie scoffs. “I wouldn’t have fought her, anyway. I don’t punch down.” Rebecca smiles. “Besides, I could simply sit on her and win.”

That gets a laugh out of the scientist. It’s one that actually reaches her eyes; Connie considers that a major victory. She gives her a squeeze. “I saw a gay bookstore back there. It’s still early. Interested?”

Rebecca frowns softly at her. “You don’t really read…?”

“But you do.”

The scientist looks a bit embarrassed, but is obviously pleased that Connie would think of her in this way. “If you…wouldn’t mind…?”

“I don’t. That’s why I suggested it.”

“Alright then. Lead the way.”

Connie turns them around and starts back towards where she saw the shop. It’s in an old warehouse. It’s actually not just a gay bookstore, but there’s a pride flag hanging out in front of the main doors. Rebecca nods her approval and heads inside, Connie trailing after her.

“Can I help you find anything today?” a sales clerk asks them brightly as they walk in.

“No, we’re just looking,” Rebecca replies, as politely as she can for being Rebecca.

“Thank you, though,” Connie adds, softening the blow, then follows Rebecca as she heads for the section marked with another pride flag. The scientist immediately starts browsing through the lesbian fiction and nonfiction section. Connie browses as well, although much more halfheartedly. Despite Rebecca turning her on to the world of good queer literature, she’s still not much of a reader.

She picks out a book at random—it has an interesting cover—and looks at the back. It’s erotica. She flips through it, reading some of the steamier passages, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“What have you got?” Rebecca asks, glancing at the title of the book and then pulling a second copy off the shelf. An eyebrow wings up as she realizes what it is. “Erotica, Connie? I didn’t peg you as the type.”

Connie shrugs, pinking a bit around the ears and neck. She puts the book back. “Not often. Only if it’s good.”

Rebecca looks thoughtful. She puts the book back and continues to look. Connie reaches around her and picks up another book. “Haven’t seen this one before.”

Rebecca peers over her arm at it. “Another erotica. Is it a west coast distributor?”

Connie looks at her blankly. The scientist sighs fondly and takes the book, flipping it open to its publisher information. “Mmm, as I thought. Published in San Francisco.” She hands the book back to Connie. “You probably haven’t seen it in Boston because of the Comstock Law.”

The butch wrinkles her nose in a clear expression of what she thinks about the Congressional act that bans the trade or dissemination of ‘obscene’ or ‘immoral’ literature. The Comstock Law had dogged the queer community since its inception, and lesbian erotica was no exception. Connie examines the back of the novel critically.

“If you want it, you should probably get it here,” Rebecca counsels, then starts browsing again. “That’ll be hard to get on the East Coast.”

“There are a lot of things that are hard to get on the East Coast because of that damn law.”

“And the other way around.”

Connie eventually decides against it and re-shelves the book. Rebecca stops and pulls a thin book off the shelf. After a second of looking at it to make sure it’s the right thing, she hands it to Connie. “Here’s another recommendation.”

Connie takes it and looks at the cover. “Howl?”

“More poetry. Did you reach the Rich poems?” Connie nods. “Did you like them?” Another nod. “Then you will probably like Howl.”

Connie checks the price; it is reasonable. She decides to buy it to read on the plane back to Boston. “Have you found anything for _you_?”

Rebecca shakes her head. “I’ve read most of these. Las Vegas is within trucking distance from the major west coast gay publishers, so we get most new titles.”

“You’ll have to give me a list of what you’ve read, so I can bring something you haven’t read from Boston next time I visit.”

“A bold assumption,” Rebecca chides mildly, because their weekend’s grace is still, technically, underway. “But it is sweet that you’d voluntarily enter a bookstore on my account.”

“I’ve already done it,” Connie points out, stepping up behind her and pressing a kiss to Rebecca’s miraculously still-in-place curls. The butch is not much taller than Rebecca, who is already an impressive six feet tall without heels, but she’s just enough taller to be effective.

Rebecca mellows a bit, but does not relax into her touch. Connie has a feeling that this is more because she is not partial to touch rather than her being upset or unresponsive.

The scientist pulls away after a moment. “I’m going to check the history section.”

“Alright.”

.

.

.

Rebecca leaves the store with two books she has never seen before on a subject she knows little about. Connie cannot remember exactly what the two books are about, but she thinks it is something to do with steam ships. Rebecca seems happy with it, though, so Connie is as well.

Neither of them are hungry, so instead of eating dinner they catch a cab back to the hotel. As soon as they are in the room Rebecca reaches up and starts to pull bobby pins out of her hair.

Connie chuckles. “How long have you been waiting to do that?”

“Hours.” Rebecca sticks a few pins into her mouth and pulls out the rest. Her hair cascades down her shoulders in loose loops from the prolonged up do. “I hate this hair style.”

Connie comes up behind her and presses a gentle kiss to her neck. “You make it look good, though.”

“I’m convinced you would think I looked good in a paper sack.”

“I’m sure you would be,” the biker replies before moving away to put her new book into her luggage.

Rebecca knots her hair up in a loose bun at the base of her neck, then takes off her jewelry. Off come the dangle earrings and the fancy silver watch around her wrist. The wrap is draped against the back of the desk chair before she sits and takes off her fancy leather shoes. She flexes her feet as they come off, relaxing a bit into the chair in relief.

Connie rolls up her shirt sleeves and comes to sit on the ottoman of the neglected chair in the corner of the room. She pats her lap for Rebecca’s feet; when the scientist puts them there, she starts to massage the instep of her foot with her thumb. The scientist sighs in contentment and closes her eyes. Connie keeps up her work.

“You’re unfair, you know that?” Rebecca murmurs after a time without opening her eyes.

“How’s that?” Connie asks. Rebecca can hear the smile in her voice.

“Fishing for compliments is not attractive, my dear.”

“I’m your dear now, am I?”

Rebecca opens her eyes. Connie’s grin is elated, but also shit eating. She sighs, a tad exasperatedly. Then with a touch of fondness, she replies, “Perhaps you are. Don’t let it go to your head.”

It’s Connie’s turn to roll her eyes. But the smile stays. She reaches up the leg of Rebecca’s jumpsuit and starts to massage her leg. From the way Rebeca’s leg is stretched out, she can feel the line of the muscle clearly under her fingers. “You have very defined calves.”

Rebecca doles out a little bit of information, gently. “I stand a lot for work.”

Connie nods and continued to massage, not pushing it. She knows now that any information, however banal, that Rebecca gives her about her top secret employment is to be cherished. She also knows she’s lucky to get it.

“That we have in common,” she tells Rebecca. “I’m one of the more intimidating guards, so I’m often assigned for transfers and headcounts. I spend most of my shifts on my feet.”

The scientist hums softly. “What did you do on break before I started recommending books to you?”

“Talk, mostly. Lotta the guards are guys, and dads, so they always got somethin’ to say about their kids.”

Rebecca snorts. She knows a couple of male scientists at Sanctuary who not only have children, but brag about their experiments as if they are their own. “I’m sure they do.”

Connie chuckles then looks up at her. “You have any siblings?” She figures that Rebecca’s past is a safe place to ask questions. Rebecca does not seem to mind sharing details of her life pre-Nevada.

Rebecca shakes her head. “Only child of a single mother. Yourself?”

“Three brothers.”

“Older or younger?”

“Both. I’m the third child.”

Rebecca made a soft noise of consideration. “Are you out to them?”

“Kinda hard not to be,” Connie joked. “But yes. I am. And I have a motorcycle, so I’m the cool aunt to a horde of small nephews.”

Rebecca’s brain provides her with the mental image of Connie on her bike surrounded by a sea of adoring young boys. She can’t help it; she chuckles. “Are they all in Boston?”

Connie shakes her head. “Mike moved to Virginia to work for the feds and Robert’s in New York now, busting his ass on Wall Street. But James is still in Boston. He works for the Park Service as a Colonial reenactor.”

“Quite the diverse family you’ve got.” Connie’s words about saving up and moving to Nevada from the night before echo in her ears. Would she really leave all that for Rebecca?

“Yeah, family gatherings are a zoo. I’m the only one without kids. Even James has a rugrat.” Connie, having fully massaged Rebecca’s left foot and leg, sets it down and starts in on the right one.

Rebecca realizes they are in dangerous territory. Although she has never wanted children, she knows occasionally her feelings towards her young experiment trend towards dangerously parental. It is the curse of following a person’s development from conception to birth, and then through growth. Rebecca is inherently committed to Icarus’ upbringing, as well as her successes and her failures.

If Connie asks her about children—if she’s ever had one, she would truthfully able to say no. She has never wanted or physically birthed a child. However, she would feel morally questionable answering the question that way. Rebecca knows that this is hypocritical; she herself is entirely morally questionable. She specializes in human experimentation. However, she also knows that there is nothing about her relationship with Connie that she wants to even be close to morally questionable.

So to stave off possible disaster, Rebecca changes the subject. “I’ve wondered…”

Connie looks up. “Hmm?”

“Do you have a license beyond the motorcycle?”

The biker nods. “Drivers and CDL.”

Of course she has a CDL. There are some aspects of this woman that are so very butch, but other aspects that fly completely in the face of it. Rebecca loves that dichotomy.

“Although the CDL is about to expire,” Connie amends. She finishes up the massage with a decisive squeeze. “How do they feel now?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Connie gently sets her feet on the floor. “I need to shower.” She pauses, then offers, “Would you like to join me?”

The scientist scoffs—Connie cannot tell if it is a fond or derisive. Maybe it is somewhere in between. Whatever the case, she opens her eyes and gives Connie a look, then shakes her head. “No thank you.”

“Alright.” Connie brushes it off and stands, starting to unbutton her shirt. “Just thought I’d offer.”

Rebecca inclines her head to indicate she fully understands it was a request, but not a request she feels like humoring just then. Connie heads off to the bathroom. She starts the shower to heat the water, then comes back out to collect a change of clothes. Rebecca changes her own clothing while Connie is in the shower. As she lies in the bed to read one of her new books, she can hear the biker humming in the shower.

Connie comes out of the bathroom a little while later in a fresh t shirt and boxers. Her hair is still damp, the water causing it to stick up straight in little spikes. She brings with her the sweet smell of steam and hotel shampoo.

“You changed,” Connie states, upon seeing her in her robe.

“Is that a problem?” Rebecca asks, looking over her shoulder at the butch from where she is reading.

“Well, I was sort of hoping I could take that jumpsuit off you,” Connie admits, pulling her shirt out and off of where it was sticking to her damp skin.  

Rebecca arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps another time.”

The butch walks over to her side of the bed and stands in front of her. “You keep saying things that imply we’ll be seeing each other again after this weekend.”

Rebecca looks up at her over her reading glasses, then carefully marked her page and sits up. Connie can see down the v of her robe into her cleavage; it’s very distracting. “I thought I had made it obvious.”

“Be a little bit more.”

“I recommend March or April for visiting Indian Springs, Nevada, where it has been known that I have a residence.” Her voice is dry, but filled with the warm tinges of humor.

Connie sits down on the bed beside her, touches her leg. “So you’re agreeing to this? To…us?”

“Against my better judgement...but yes.” Rebecca reaches over, takes her hand, and puts it on the bed.

Connie tries not to be too offended. “Is that better judgement the threat of the long distance relationship or your job?”

“Both,” she admits.

“Well, then, I’m happy you are taking the chance on us.”

“I just hope,” the scientist replies, taking off her glasses and putting them up into her hair, “for both of our sakes, that neither of us regrets this.”

Connie shrugs. “We’re adults. We’ve made our bed, and now we’ll lie in it.”

“Interesting choice of words.” Rebecca moves a bit closer, places a hand on her leg despite just moving Connie’s from her own. Connie takes notice, but does not say anything, which is good, because Rebecca is soon leaning in and initiating a kiss.

It’s soft and quick, a little bit more than a peck but short enough that it makes Connie want to draw her in close and kiss her long and slow. But she doesn’t, unsure of Rebecca’s current boundaries. The scientist seems to be constantly shifting between hot and cold, open to being touched and then not, so it up to Connie to test the waters before responding further.

“That was nice,” she murmurs. Rebecca makes a soft, amused noise. Her hand slides a little higher up Connie’s thigh and she leans in again; this time their kiss continues for several minutes. Rebecca’s free hand comes up twice, once to guide her into a deeper kiss and the second just to brush through Connie’s hair.   

Despite wanting nothing more than to pull her into her lap, Connie resists and lets Rebecca call the shots. The scientist proves herself equal to the task, coaxing their kisses into a make out session that just borders on hot and heavy.

Connie soon can’t keep her hands off her, but that is okay, because Rebeca can’t keep her hands off Connie, either. Her touch is sure and confident as she moves her hands across the biker’s shoulders and arms, mapping out where the muscles lie beneath the bulk and cotton t-shirt. Her hands pause every so often to squeeze with her palm or press with her fingertips. The biker does not mind, although the slow and methodical search of her person makes her a bit self-conscious. She is fairly certain Rebecca does not give a single iota about her size, but Rebecca’s examination still reminds her of her yearly physical in which the doctor always snidely comments that she could _stand to lose a little weight._

Connie is pulled from thought when Rebecca’s hands still along her collarbone. She tests the spot again then pulls away, frowning. “You’ve got an old injury here…”

Connie raises an eyebrow. “You can tell?”

The scientist shrugs in a way that means the reason why she knows how to do so is classified.

Connie files the information away, but nods. “Motorcycle accident.”

Rebecca looks thoughtful. “Broken collarbone?”

“Along with a dislocated shoulder and broken wrist. I fell on that side.”

Her face contorts for a moment into something like looks like concern. She runs a thumb over the spot. “Is that why you have a fairly new bike?”

“Yeah. Happened in October of eighty. Bought the bike after I healed up and saved enough for the new one.”

Rebecca makes a noise of understanding, then leans in and kisses her again, briefly. “Have I killed our mood?”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” she says, briskly. “I owe you for this morning.”

Connie’s eyebrows wing towards her hairline. “You don’t _owe_ me anything, Rebecca.”

“I’m well aware. This is entirely voluntary.”

The biker leans in, gives her a soft kiss. “If you want to take me, you can just say so. Trust me, that will be much more likely to turn me on than ‘I owe you.’”

Rebecca pinks a bit. “It just seems very crude.”

“Not crude.” Another soft kiss to Rebecca’s lips. “Sexy.” Kiss. “Attractive.” Kiss. “Take your pick.”

Rebecca lets Connie kiss her while she regains her composure; she’s a bit embarrassed, which is a rare feeling for her. When she’s ready she pulls back, sweeping assertiveness around her like a protective, powerful cloak. Connie notices the change in her composure; it makes her ache in more ways than one.

“If that’s the case…” Rebecca’s fingers fiddle with the neck of Connie’s white cotton t-shirt. “I want this off.”

Connie pulls back and drags the shirt over her head without a word, tossing it towards the closet. Rebecca takes in the expanse of her chest, how freckles scatter across her pale skin, the way her weight settles on her hips, how large her areolas are. As she leans in to kiss her, she realizes how perfectly Connie’s lips match the color of her areolas. She chuckles into Connie’s mouth, causing the biker to pull back in confusion.

“What?”

Rebecca tells her.

Connie’s face scrunches up in bemusement, then she wrinkles her nose. “I’m never going to be able to unthink that now.”

“Hush,” the scientist says fondly. Connie rolls her eyes (for once, instead of the other way around) and lets Rebecca pulls her back into their kiss.

.

.

.

Rebecca works Connie up so much she feels like she is going to explode. When she is like this—dominant, assertive, breathtaking—she becomes even more of a tease, and she keeps Connie going for what seems like an eternity before finally letting her peak. It’s a long and hard one, courtesy of the extended foreplay session; Connie is a sweaty, limp mess by the end of it.

As Connie recovers, lightheaded from the intensity of her orgasm, Rebecca places an order for room service. The sight of Rebecca sitting in the chair on the hotel phone, legs crossed, hair disheveled, robe coming undone, and glasses on is more of a turn on for Connie than she could ever believe. Rebecca notices Connie’s stare.

While they wait for the food, she makes Connie peak again. They are halfway to Rebecca’s when a porter knocks on the door, announcing the arrival of their room service. Rebecca hisses in disappointment.

Connie makes herself scarce in the bathroom while Rebecca rushes to be presentable enough to open the door. The biker is a bit annoyed—they had known they probably did not have enough time for the second round, but they had gone ahead with it anyway. Connie had just gotten the hand of rubbing Rebecca off when the food arrived. If he had waited just another few minutes…

By the time Connie comes out, dressed in her sleep clothes again, the porter is gone and the room service tray has been placed on the desk. Rebecca is sitting in the desk chair in her robe, legs crossed and looking a bit uncomfortable. Connie has a sneaking suspicion that she is still very turned on.

She sits on the ottoman next to her, pretending casualness. “Alright?”

Rebecca gives her a look indicating she is _not at all fine_ and that Connie knows _exactly why_. Connie glances at the tray; the food has covers over it, so it will remain warm for a bit longer. With that in mind, she drops to her knees in front of Rebecca little ceremony, then tugs her closer via a well-placed tug on the back of her knees.

The scientist gasps and braces herself on the arm of the chair. “Connie?”

“Can’t have you suffering during dinner.” Connie gently unties her robe and starts to pull it open. “Alright?”

Rebecca nods as the cool air of the room causes her exposed skin to gooseflesh and her nipples to harden. She had fully expected to press through dinner turned on, but her lover clearly has other ideas. She uncrosses her legs and opens them.

Connie slides her legs open further, taking care to tease with her thumbs the places that make Rebecca squirm in anticipation. Then Connie’s mouth presses fiery hot kisses along the inside of her thighs; the scientist gasps, her fingers finding their way into the butch’s hair.

Then Connie’s mouth is on Rebecca’s sex and she is lost to the feeling of tongue, wetness, and pressure.

 

 


	6. Part 6

Connie leaves early the next afternoon, catching a cab from the hotel back to the airport. Rebecca is left in the hotel room to prepare her own exist from Seattle, still sore from their morning romp. They had pushed the limits of what they had done before and while it had been incredibly satisfying, it has left Rebecca wanting.

The second time Connie leaves is as worse as the first—possibly even more so, because this time as she is about to leave Connie kisses her goodbye and promises to write as soon as she gets back.  Rebecca feels her lack of presence heavily in the hotel room, and thinks about her on her way to the airport herself, several hours later. As she waits to board her own plane, she realizes that Connie’s flight should be nearing touchdown in Boston. She hopes her ride back to her apartment in Winthrop is a safe one.

When she gets back to Indian Plains, her house is empty. Her house is always empty. The loneliness is funnily less acute there—it has been months since Connie has been there. Rebecca unpacks, takes a shower, and crawls into bed. She sleeps soundly for the first time in two days, but she misses rolling over in the night and seeing Connie’s silhouette beside her.

-/-

_October 10, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I know I said I would write as soon as I got home but there was an incident at work and it has left a lot of paperwork in its wake. Had to go to court to testify and came home every night too tired to do much more than go to bed._

_I read Howl on the plane; it was interesting, but I did not like it as much as I liked Rich’s work. I think I can relate to her work more to her poems because of the subject matter. I have been thinking of going to buy more of her work once I get paid. Do you have any recommendation?_

_Love,_

_Connie_

_-/-_

_October 23, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I had wondered but I figured the letter was probably lost in the mail. Although, perhaps it is for the best, as I returned to a crisis created by my idiotic coworkers and spent several days dealing with that. I hope the incident at the prison was nothing serious, although it sounded like it resulted in quite the ordeal for you.  I hope by the time this reaches you that the issue will be resolved completely._

_As for Rich, I recommend “Blood, Bread, and Poetry: Selected Prose, 1979–1985,” which has a fantastic essay in it about compulsory heterosexuality that I believe you, especially will appreciate as a butch lesbian._ “The Diamond Cutters, and Other Poems” _is also fantastic. I highly recommend her entire body of work, and too keep an eye out for newly published material. She is still actively writing._

_Best,_

_Rebecca_

-/-

November 1, 1986

_Rebecca,_

_The incident was unfortunately serious—the inmate had a shank and tried to stab myself and another correctional officer as we transferred him. He missed, thankfully, but as you can image, there was a lot of paperwork. He received two new charges for assaulting an officer._

_I picked up the two titles you recommended, as well as “A Wild Patience Has Taken Me this Far” because the title drew me in. I haven’t read them yet, but plan to read them in the next few weeks. I will let you know what I think when I do._

_Took my nephew, Brian, out Trick or Treating last night. He was dressed up as Ghost Rider from the comics, which he is obsessed with. The main character rides a motorcycle, so James (Brian’s dad) asked me to take him. Dressed up in all black and had fun with it—a couple of the parents even gave me candy for playing along. I don’t spend much time with my family outside of the holidays (they might know I’m gay, but it does not mean some of them approve), so it was a nice change of pace._

_Hope you are doing alright. I miss you._

_Love,_

_Connie_

_-/-_

_November 10, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I thought you worked at a medium security prison? I’m alarmed to hear you were almost stabbed by an inmate, even though I am aware risk is a part of your job description. Do be careful, please._

_I picked up my copy of the “Dykes To Watch Out For” collection last weekend and reread it this weekend.  I also picked up “Menlove Avenue” and am listening to it tonight as I work late. I am assuming you will approve of this decision, considering your fondness for the Beatles._

_Best,_

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_November 20, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I am planning on getting “Menlove Avenue” soon—the plane ticket to Al’s wake put a bit of a hole in my savings so I’m trying to plug it up before I spend much more again. I’ve heard some of it on the radio in the break room. Good stuff._

_I have finally read through all the Rich titles and greatly enjoyed them! This quote from “For Memory” reminds me on our first night:_

“Freedom. It isn’t once, to walk out under the Milky Way, feeling the rivers of light, the fields of dark—freedom is daily, prose-bound, routine remembering. Putting together, inch by inch the starry worlds. From all the lost collections.”

_I was really struck by it. I thought these lines were beautiful. I hope you enjoy them, too._

_Did you see what that the World Health Agency is taking on AIDS? Finally! Thankful to see somebody is doing something about this besides the community. Now if only Reagan would get with the program._

_Love,_

_Connie_

_-/-_

_November 26, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I did see the news about WHO. It is definitely about time that something is done; The National Council for Health calls it a “national crisis” but Reagan looks the other way. It makes me sick. We only have three more years of him, but I think he has already done irreplaceable damage to the community._

_Thank you for sharing the quote. It is rather striking; I have not read that particular collection by Rich but I do think I will now pick it up._

_I hope you have a good holiday with your family, as I am assuming you will be spending time with them this Thanksgiving. Unless you are working at the prison that weekend, in which case, good luck._

_Rebecca_

_-/-_

_December 9, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_I did spend time with my family for Thanksgiving. My brother Mike held it at his house in Virginia—a long drive, but it was beautiful so it was not too much of a hardship. They live in a large house out in the sticks. My mother and father moved in with him and his six ( six!) children. I arrived late and therefore got a spot on the floor. The ride was already enough, but two nights on the floor cinched it. My back has still not forgiven me. _

_I hope your Thanksgiving was alright, all things considering. I hope you were not too lonely._

_Love,_

_Connie_

_P.S. When did you want me to come out in March/April? And for how long? Propose a couple of dates and I’ll look into taking off._

_P.P.S. I will be sending a Christmas card and your present to you soon. I hope you like it._

_-/-_

Approximately a week before Christmas, Connie got a package from Rebecca, stamped through the Indian Springs Post Office a few days after she had sent her last letter. She opened it and found a neatly wrapped rectangle, as well as a card. A scrap of paper was taped to the front, and she pulled it off.

_“Connie –_

_I advise you do not unwrap this around your family. It might prove difficult to explain._

_Rebecca”_

Bemused, Connie set the package on her counter and resolved to open it before she left for Virginia.

-/-

_December 20, 1986_

_Connie,_

_I’m sure you will get my own gift before this letter. I hope you heeded the warning I left you. Did you find it illuminating? Merry Christmas. It has been many years since I have exchanged gifts with someone, so I hope you appreciate yours. I will be opening yours on Christmas, so you will have to wait for the New Year to find out my thoughts on whatever it is you have sent me. (The postal delivery worker of Indian Creek was delighted to bring me a package instead of my usual assortment of periodicals, magazines, and bills, so that is something.)_

_As for visiting, the last week of March or the first week of April should provide good weather. You are welcome to stay as long as you like; it would be good if you could stay for at least a few days._

_Rebecca_

_P.S. I have included a clipping from the paper about a local endeavor that I thought you would appreciate. Rhyolite is about an hour away from Indian Springs._

_-/-_

_December 27, 1986_

_Rebecca,_

_Why is incredibly unsurprising (but also extremely fitting) that you sent me annotated erotica for Christmas? This thing is filthy—but very well written. I loved it, and am very glad I did not open it at Mike’s. I also enjoyed your comments in the margins. It would be my pleasure to help some of those underlined fantasies comes true…shall we begin on, say April 4th? To April 9th? Is five days too long? I should have enough money by them. _

_Also, I loved the clipping! Thank you for sending it to me._

_Happy New Year._

_Connie_

_-/-_

_January 6, 1987_

_Connie,_

_I’m glad you enjoyed your gift, as well as your clipping. I look forward to you putting your new knowledge to use. Also, thank you the books. You were right; these are not in west coast stores. It was very thoughtful of you and I have enjoyed reading them immensely._

_That week in April is fine. I will put it on my calendar. Don’t worry about the money. Let me know how much the flights are and I will send you the money required to pay for them. It is, after all, my fault that you have to come visit me._

_Rebecca_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the clipping Rebecca sent Connie: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1986/12/09/the-ghost-town-as-gay-mecca/42a10178-39ad-4743-a2d5-81045208c5ea/?utm_term=.bee9a4f1c188
> 
> Thanks for reading. Cheers :)


End file.
